Dickens

Bleak House
by

Charles Dickens
PREFACE
A Chancery judge once had the kindness to inform me, as one of a
company of some hundred and fifty men and women not labouring
under any suspicions of lunacy, that the Court of Chancery, though the
shining subject of much popular prejudice (at which point I thought the
judge’s eye had a cast in my direction), was almost immaculate. There
had been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate of progress, but
this was exaggerated and had been entirely owing to the “parsimony of
the public,” which guilty public, it appeared, had been until lately bent
in the most determined manner on by no means enlarging the number
of Chancery judges appointed—I believe by Richard the Second, but
any other king will do as well.
This seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in the body of
this book or I should have restored it to Conversation Kenge or to Mr.
Vholes, with one or other of whom I think it must have originated. In
such mouths I might have coupled it with an apt quotation from one of
Shakespeare’s sonnets:
“My nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:
Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed!”
But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know
what has been doing, and still is doing, in this connexion, I mention
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here that everything set forth in these pages concerning the Court of
Chancery is substantially true, and within the truth. The case of
Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual occurrence, made
public by a disinterested person who was professionally acquainted
with the whole of the monstrous wrong from beginning to end. At
the present moment (August, 1853) there is a suit before the court
which was commenced nearly twenty years ago, in which from thirty
to forty counsel have been known to appear at one time, in which
costs have been incurred to the amount of seventy thousand pounds,
which is a friendly suit, and which is (I am assured) no nearer to its
termination now than when it was begun. There is another well-
known suit in Chancery, not yet decided, which was commenced
before the close of the last century and in which more than double
the amount of seventy thousand pounds has been swallowed up in
costs. If I wanted other authorities for Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I could
rain them on these pages, to the shame of—a parsimonious public.
There is only one other point on which I offer a word of remark.
The possibility of what is called spontaneous combustion has been
denied since the death of Mr. Krook; and my good friend Mr. Lewes
(quite mistaken, as he soon found, in supposing the thing to have
been abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious letters
to me at the time when that event was chronicled, arguing that spon-
taneous combustion could not possibly be. I have no need to observe
that I do not wilfully or negligently mislead my readers and that
before I wrote that description I took pains to investigate the subject.
There are about thirty cases on record, of which the most famous,
that of the Countess Cornelia de Baudi Cesenate, was minutely in-
vestigated and described by Giuseppe Bianchini, a prebendary of
Verona, otherwise distinguished in letters, who published an account
of it at Verona in 1731, which he afterwards republished at Rome.
The appearances, beyond all rational doubt, observed in that case are
the appearances observed in Mr. Krook’s case. The next most famous
instance happened at Rheims six years earlier, and the historian in
that case is Le Cat, one of the most renowned surgeons produced by
France. The subject was a woman, whose husband was ignorantly
convicted of having murdered her; but on solemn appeal to a higher
court, he was acquitted because it was shown upon the evidence that

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she had died the death of which this name of spontaneous combus-
tion is given. I do not think it necessary to add to these notable facts,
and that general reference to the authorities which will be found at
page 30, vol. ii.,* the recorded opinions and experiences of distin-
guished medical professors, French, English, and Scotch, in more
modern days, contenting myself with observing that I shall not aban-
don the facts until there shall have been a considerable spontaneous
combustion of the testimony on which human occurrences are usu-
ally received.
In Bleak House I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of
familiar things.
1853

* Another case, very clearly described by a dentist, occurred at the town of Colum-
bus, in the United States of America, quite recently. The subject was a German who
kept a liquor- shop aud was an inveterate drunkard.
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CHAPTER I

In Chancery
LONDON. MICHAELMAS TERM lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting
in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in
the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the
earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet
long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke
lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with
flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourn-
ing, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable
in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot
passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill
temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thou-
sands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the
day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon
crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and
accumulating at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green
aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among
the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and
dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights.
Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the
yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on
the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats
of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their
wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful
skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and
fingers of his shivering little ‘prentice boy on deck. Chance people
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on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog,
with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hang-
ing in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much
as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by hus-
bandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours be-
fore their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and
unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction,
appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old cor-
poration, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn
Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in
his High Court of Chancery.
Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud
and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering con-
dition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary
sinners, holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.
On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to
be sitting her—as here he is—with a foggy glory round his head,
softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large
advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief,
and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof,
where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon some score
of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as
here they are—mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of
an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents,
groping knee- deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horse-
hair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of
equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon the
various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have
inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to
be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but
you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the
registrar’s red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, an-
swers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters,
masters’ reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them.

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Well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well
may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may
the stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day
into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in
through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its
owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from
the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lan-
tern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all stuck
in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery, which has its decaying
houses and its blighted lands in every shire, which has its worn-out
lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which
has its ruined suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress bor-
rowing and begging through the round of every man’s acquaintance,
which gives to monied might the means abundantly of wearying out
the right, which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so
overthrows the brain and breaks the heart, that there is not an
honourable man among its practitioners who would not give—who
does not often give—the warning, “Suffer any wrong that can be
done you rather than come here!”
Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor’s court this murky af-
ternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or
three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors
before mentioned? There is the registrar below the judge, in wig and
gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses,
or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning,
for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce
(the cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago.
The short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters
of the newspapers invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars
when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Stand-
ing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the cur-
tained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet
who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always ex-
pecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favour.
Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit, but no one knows for
certain because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a reticule
which she calls her documents, principally consisting of paper matches

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and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the
half-dozenth time to make a personal application “to purge himself
of his contempt,” which, being a solitary surviving executor who has
fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is
not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely
ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life are ended. Another
ruined suitor, who periodically appears from Shropshire and breaks
out into efforts to address the Chancellor at the close of the day’s
business and who can by no means be made to understand that the
Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate
for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an
eye on the judge, ready to call out “My Lord!” in a voice of sonorous
complaint on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers’ clerks and oth-
ers who know this suitor by sight linger on the chance of his furnish-
ing some fun and enlivening the dismal weather a little.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in
course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows
what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been
observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five
minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the pre-
mises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innu-
merable young people have married into it; innumerable old people
have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found them-
selves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how
or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the
suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rock-
ing-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up,
possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world.
Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long
procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills
in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are
not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce
in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but
Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court,
perennially hopeless.
Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good
that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke in

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the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out of

it. Every Chancellor was “in it,” for somebody or other, when he was
counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by blue-
nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee
after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing
their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly,
when, correcting Mr. Blowers, the eminent silk gown who said that
such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he ob-
served, “or when we get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blow-
ers”—a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses.
How many people out of the suit Jarndyce and Jarndyce has
stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be
a very wide question. From the master upon whose impaling files
reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed
into many shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks’ Of-
fice who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages
under that eternal heading, no man’s nature has been made better by
it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, un-
der false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never
come to good. The very solicitors’ boys who have kept the wretched
suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle,
Mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and had appointments
until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into them-
selves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause has
acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has acquired too a distrust
of his own mother and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle,
and otherwise have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising them-
selves that they will look into that outstanding little matter and see
what can be done for Drizzle—who was not well used—when
Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and
sharking in all their many varieties have been sown broadcast by the
ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history
from the outermost circle of such evil have been insensibly tempted
into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad
course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong it was in some
off- hand manner never meant to go right.
Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the Lord

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High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

“Mr. Tangle,” says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something rest-
less under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.
“Mlud,” says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it—supposed never to
have read anything else since he left school.
“Have you nearly concluded your argument?”
“Mlud, no—variety of points—feel it my duty tsubmit—ludship,”
is the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.
“Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?” says the
Chancellor with a slight smile.
Eighteen of Mr. Tangle’s learned friends, each armed with a little
summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers
in a pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen
places of obscurity.
“We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight,” says
the Chancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs, a
mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to
a settlement one of these days.
The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward
in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, “My lord!” Maces, bags,
and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at the man from
Shropshire.
“In reference,” proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, “to the young girl—”
“Begludship’s pardon—boy,” says Mr. Tangle prematurely. “In ref-
erence,” proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, “to the young
girl and boy, the two young people”—Mr. Tangle crushed — “whom
I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private
room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of
making the order for their residing with their uncle.”
Mr. Tangle on his legs again. “Begludship’s pardon—dead.”
“With their”—Chancellor looking through his double eyeglass at
the papers on his desk—”grandfather.”
“Begludship’s pardon—victim of rash action—brains.”
Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises, fully
inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, “Will your lordship

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allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several times removed. I am

not at the moment prepared to inform the court in what exact remove
he is a cousin, but he is a cousin.
Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in
the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog knows
him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can see him.
“I will speak with both the young people,” says the Chancellor
anew, “and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their
cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take
my seat.”
The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is
presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner’s conglomera-
tion but his being sent back to prison, which is soon done. The man
from Shropshire ventures another remonstrative “My lord!” but the
Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Every-
body else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with
heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old
woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked
up. If all the injustice it has committed and all the misery it has
caused could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in
a great funeral pyre—why so much the better for other parties than
the parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce!

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CHAPTER II

In Fashion
IT IS BUT A GLIMPSE of the world of fashion that we want on this same
miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery but that
we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both
the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of prece-
dent and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles who have played at
strange games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties
whom the knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in
the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously!
It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, which
has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have made
the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a
very little speck. There is much good in it; there are many good and
true people in it; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is that it
is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller’s cotton and fine wool,
and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot see
them as they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and its
growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air.
My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few
days previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends
to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. The
fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians, and
it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise were to be
unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in
familiar conversation, her “place” in Lincolnshire. The waters are out
in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped
and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground for half a mile in
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breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees for islands in it and

a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. My Lady
Dedlock’s place has been extremely dreary. The weather for many a
day and night has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and
the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman’s axe can make no
crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quag-
mires where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the
moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the
green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling
rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock’s own windows is alternately
a lead-coloured view and a view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone
terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops
fall—drip, drip, drip—upon the broad flagged pavement, called from
old time the Ghost’s Walk, all night. On Sundays the little church in
the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat;
and there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in
their graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is childless), looking out in the
early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper’s lodge and seeing the
light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising from the
chimney, and a child, chased by a woman, running out into the rain
to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming through the
gate, has been put quite out of temper. My Lady Dedlock says she
has been “bored to death.”
Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in
Lincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the rab-
bits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The pictures of
the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp
walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along
the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when they will next
come forth again, the fashionable intelligence—which, like the fiend,
is omniscient of the past and present, but not the future—cannot yet
undertake to say.
Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier
baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more
respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might get on
without hills but would be done up without Dedlocks. He would
on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps,

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when not enclosed with a park- fence), but an idea dependent for its
execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict
conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness and ready on the
shortest notice to die any death you may please to mention rather
than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is
an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high- spirited, intensely preju-
diced, perfectly unreasonable man.
Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady. He
will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-
seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a little
stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light-grey hair and whis-
kers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat, and his blue coat
with bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately,
most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal
attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry to my Lady, which
has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of
romantic fancy in him.
Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about that she had
not even family; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps
he had enough and could dispense with any more. But she had beauty,
pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a
legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her
upward, and for years now my Lady Dedlock has been at the centre of
the fashionable intelligence and at the top of the fashionable tree.
How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer,
everybody Knows—or has some reason to know by this time, the
matter having been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock,
having conquered her world, fell not into the melting, but rather
into the freezing, mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out pla-
cidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satis-
faction, are the trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If
she could be translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected
to ascend without any rapture.
She has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its
autumn. She has a fine face—originally of a character that would be
rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality
by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is elegant

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and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that “the most is
made,” as the Honourable Bob Stables has frequently asserted upon
oath, “of all her points.” The same authority observes that she is perfectly
got up and remarks in commendation of her hair especially that she is
the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.
With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come
up from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable
intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her
departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks,
after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town,
upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fash-
ioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the High
Court of Chancery, who has the honour of acting as legal adviser of
the Dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that
name outside as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror’s
trick and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across
the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the
rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of
it—fairy- land to visit, but a desert to live in—the old gentleman is
conducted by a Mercury in powder to my Lady’s presence.
The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made
good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic
wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of
family confidences, of which he is known to be the silent depository.
There are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of
parks among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold
fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the
breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school—a
phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been
young—and wears knee-breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or
stockings. One peculiarity of his black clothes and of his black stock-
ings, be they silk or worsted, is that they never shine. Mute, close,
irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never
converses when not professionaly consulted. He is found sometimes,
speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great coun-
try houses and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the
fashionable intelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and

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where half the Peerage stops to say “How do you do, Mr.
Tulkinghorn?” He receives these salutations with gravity and buries
them along with the rest of his knowledge.
Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady and is happy to see Mr.
Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is al-
ways agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. He
likes Mr. Tulkinghorn’s dress; there is a kind of tribute in that too. It
is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like.
It expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal mysteries, the butler
of the legal cellar, of the Dedlocks.
Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it
may not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in
everything associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class—as
one of the leaders and representatives of her little world. She sup-
poses herself to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and
ken of ordinary mortals—seeing herself in her glass, where indeed
she looks so. Yet every dim little star revolving about her, from her
maid to the manager of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses,
prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices and lives upon as accu-
rate a calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature as her
dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. Is a new dress, a new
custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new
dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, to be set up? There are
deferential people in a dozen callings whom my Lady Dedlock sus-
pects of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to
manage her as if she were a baby, who do nothing but nurse her all
their lives, who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservi-
ence, lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one,
hook all and bear them off as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately
fleet of the majestic Lilliput. “If you want to address our people, sir,”
say Blaze and Sparkle, the jewellers—meaning by our people Lady
Dedlock and the Rest—”you must remember that you are not deal-
ing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest
place, and their weakest place is such a place.” “To make this article
go down, gentlemen,” say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to their
friends the manufacturers, “you must come to us, because we know
where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashion-

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Bleak House

able.” “If you want to get this print upon the tables of my high
connexion, sir,” says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, “or if you want to
get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or
if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high
connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for I have been
accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir, and I
may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my fin-
ger”—in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exag-
gerate at all.
Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing
in the Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may.
“My Lady’s cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.
Tulkinghorn?” says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.
“Yes. It has been on again to-day,” Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, mak-
ing one of his quiet bows to my Lady, who is on a sofa near the fire,
shading her face with a hand-screen.
“It would be useless to ask,” says my Lady with the dreariness of
the place in Lincolnshire still upon her, “whether anything has been
done.”
“Nothing that you would call anything has been done to-day,” re-
plies Mr. Tulkinghorn.
“Nor ever will be,” says my Lady.
Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. It is a
slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be sure, he has
not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only
property my Lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression that
for his name—the name of Dedlock—to be in a cause, and not in the
title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. But he regards the Court
of Chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a
trifling amount of confusion, as a something devised in conjunction
with a variety of other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom
for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he is
upon the whole of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his coun-
tenance to any complaints respecting it would be to encourage some
person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere—like Wat Tyler.
“As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file,” says Mr.
Tulkinghorn, “and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the trouble-

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some principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new

proceedings in a cause”—cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no
more responsibility than necessary—”and further, as I see you are
going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket.”
(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by the by, but the delight of
the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)
Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place
them on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady’s elbow, puts on his
spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.
“‘In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce—’”
My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal
horrors as he can.
Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower down.
My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir Leicester in a
great chair looks at the file and appears to have a stately liking for the legal
repetitions and prolixities as ranging among the national bulwarks. It hap-
pens that the fire is hot where my Lady sits and that the hand-screen is
more beautiful than useful, being priceless but small. My Lady, changing
her position, sees the papers on the table—looks at them nearer—looks at
them nearer still—asks impulsively, “Who copied that?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady’s animation
and her unusual tone.
“Is it what you people call law-hand?” she asks, looking full at him
in her careless way again and toying with her screen.
“Not quite. Probably”—Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he
speaks—”the legal character which it has was acquired after the origi-
nal hand was formed. Why do you ask?”
“Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens
her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, “Eh? What
do you say?”
“I say I am afraid,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily,
“that Lady Dedlock is ill.”
“Faint,” my Lady murmurs with white lips, “only that; but it is
like the faintness of death. Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to
my room!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle

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Bleak House

and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to

return.
“Better now,” quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down
and read to him alone. “I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my
Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she
really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire.”

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 Dickens

CHAPTER III

A Progress
I HAVE A GREAT DEAL of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of
these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can
remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my
doll when we were alone together, “Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you
know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!” And
so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful
complexion and rosy lips, staring at me—or not so much at me, I
think, as at nothing—while I busily stitched away and told her every
one of my secrets.
My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared
to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else.
It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me
when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room
and say, “Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expect-
ing me!” and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of
her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had
always rather a noticing way—not a quick way, oh, no!—a silent
way of noticing what passed before me and thinking I should like to
understand it better. I have not by any means a quick understanding.
When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. But
even that may be my vanity.
I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance—like some of
the princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming—by my
godmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good, good
woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morn-
ing prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever
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Bleak House

there were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if she
had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an angel—
but she never smiled. She was always grave and strict. She was so very
good herself, I thought, that the badness of other people made her
frown all her life. I felt so different from her, even making every
allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; I felt so
poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never could be unrestrained
with her—no, could never even love her as I wished. It made me very
sorry to consider how good she was and how unworthy of her I was,
and I used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart; and I
talked it over very often with the dear old doll, but I never loved my
godmother as I ought to have loved her and as I felt I must have
loved her if I had been a better girl.
This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally
was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at
ease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thing
that helped it very much.
I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my
papa either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never
worn a black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown
my mama’s grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never
been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more
than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael,
our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (an-
other very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said,
“Esther, good night!” and gone away and left me.
Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where
I was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther
Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older
than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there
seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and
besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much
more than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to the
school (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party, to
my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for
me, and I never went. I never went out at all.
It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other Birth-

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 Dickens

days—none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other birth-

days, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one another—
there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy day
at home in the whole year.
I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I
know it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though
indeed I don’t), my comprehension is quickened when my affection
is. My disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel
such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once
with the quickness of that birthday.
Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table
before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound
had been heard in the room or in the house for I don’t know how
long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the
table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at
me, “It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no
birthday, that you had never been born!”
I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, “Oh, dear godmother, tell
me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?”
“No,” she returned. “Ask me no more, child!”
“Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear god-
mother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her?
Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault,
dear godmother? No, no, no, don’t go away. Oh, speak to me!”
I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her
dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while, “Let
me go!” But now she stood still.
Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in
the midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to
clasp hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but
withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart.
She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said slowly
in a cold, low voice—I see her knitted brow and pointed finger—
”Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time
will come—and soon enough—when you will understand this bet-
ter and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have forgiven
her”—but her face did not relent—”the wrong she did to me, and I

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say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know—
than any one will ever know but I, the sufferer. For yourself, unfor-
tunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anni-
versaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your
head, according to what is written. Forget your mother and leave all
other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that great-
est kindness. Now, go!”
She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her—so
frozen as I was!—and added this, “Submission, self-denial, diligent
work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it.
You are different from other children, Esther, because you were not
born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart.”
I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll’s cheek
against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon
my bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of
my sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to
anybody’s heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was
to me.
Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together after-
wards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my birthday
and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I could to repair the
fault I had been born with (of which I confessedly felt guilty and yet
innocent) and would strive as I grew up to be industrious, contented,
and kind- hearted and to do some good to some one, and win some
love to myself if I could. I hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these
tears as I think of it. I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I
cannot quite help their coming to my eyes.
There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.
I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more
after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which
ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult of approach,
though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in the
same way towards my school companions; I felt in the same way to-
wards Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and oh, towards her daughter, of
whom she was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! I was very
retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent.
One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with

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 Dickens

my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and

as I was gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked
out of the parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found—
which was very unusual indeed—a stranger. A portly, important-
looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large
gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon
his little finger.
“This,” said my godmother in an undertone, “is the child.” Then
she said in her naturally stern way of speaking, “This is Esther, sir.”
The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, “Come
here, my dear!” He shook hands with me and asked me to take off
my bonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he
said, “Ah!” and afterwards “Yes!” And then, taking off his eye- glasses
and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,
turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a
nod. Upon that, my godmother said, “You may go upstairs, Esther!”
And I made him my curtsy and left him.
It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,
when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I
was reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine
o’clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading from
St. John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in
the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.
“‘So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and
said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast
a stone at her!’”
I was stopped by my godmother’s rising, putting her hand to her head,
and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of the book,
“‘Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And
what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!’”
In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she
fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded
through the house and been heard in the street.
She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little
altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that I so well
knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the
night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be

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Bleak House

plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her
blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she
knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the very last,
and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened.
On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentle-
man in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by
Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never
gone away.
“My name is Kenge,” he said; “you may remember it, my child;
Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln’s Inn.”
I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.
“Pray be seated—here near me. Don’t distress yourself; it’s of no use.
Mrs. Rachael, I needn’t inform you who were acquainted with the late
Miss Barbary’s affairs, that her means die with her and that this young
lady, now her aunt is dead—”
“My aunt, sir!”
“It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to
be gained by it,” said Mr. Kenge smoothly, “Aunt in fact, though not
in law. Don’t distress yourself! Don’t weep! Don’t tremble! Mrs.
Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of—the—a—Jarndyce
and Jarndyce.”
“Never,” said Mrs. Rachael.
“Is it possible,” pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, “that
our young friend—I beg you won’t distress yourself!—never heard of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce!”
I shook my head, wondering even what it was.
“Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?” said Mr. Kenge, looking over his glasses
at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he were petting
something. “Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits known? Not of Jarndyce
and Jarndyce—the—a—in itself a monument of Chancery practice. In which
(I would say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every
form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and over again? It
is a cause that could not exist out of this free and great country. I should say
that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Rachael”—I was
afraid he addressed himself to her because I appeared inattentive”—amounts
at the present hour to from six-ty to seven-ty thousand pounds!” said Mr.
Kenge, leaning back in his chair.

26
 Dickens

I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirely unac-
quainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it even
then.
“And she really never heard of the cause!” said Mr. Kenge. “Sur-
prising!”
“Miss Barbary, sir,” returned Mrs. Rachael, “who is now among
the Seraphim—”
“I hope so, I am sure,” said Mr. Kenge politely.
“—Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her.
And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.”
“Well!” said Mr. Kenge. “Upon the whole, very proper. Now to
the point,” addressing me. “Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact
that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being
deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs. Rachael—
”
“Oh, dear no!” said Mrs. Rachael quickly.
“Quite so,” assented Mr. Kenge; “—that Mrs. Rachael should charge
herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won’t distress
yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which I
was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago and which,
though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamen-
table circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow that I repre-
sent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise, a highly humane, but at
the same time singular, man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of
my professional caution?” said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again
and looking calmly at us both.
He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own
voice. I couldn’t wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave
great importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself
with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own
music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very
much impressed by him—even then, before I knew that he formed
himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he
was generally called Conversation Kenge.
“Mr. Jarndyce,” he pursued, “being aware of the—I would say, deso-
late—position of our young friend, offers to place her at a first-rate es-
tablishment where her education shall be completed, where her comfort

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Bleak House

shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where

she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of
life unto which it has pleased—shall I say Providence?—to call her.”
My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his affect-
ing manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I tried.
“Mr. Jarndyce,” he went on, “makes no condition beyond express-
ing his expectation that our young friend will not at any time re-
move herself from the establishment in question without his knowl-
edge and concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the
acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which
she will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of
virtue and honour, and—the—a—so forth.”
I was still less able to speak than before.
“Now, what does our young friend say?” proceeded Mr, Kenge. “Take
time, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!”
What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not
repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth the
telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could never relate.
This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as
I knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with all
necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.
Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I
was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have
known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself
enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she
gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop
from the stone porch—it was a very frosty day—I felt so miserable
and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault,
I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!
“No, Esther!” she returned. “It is your misfortune!”
The coach was at the little lawn-gate—we had not come out until
we heard the wheels— and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She
went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the
door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the
window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all
the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an
old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first

28
 Dickens

thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost
and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in
her own shawl and quietly laid her—I am half ashamed to tell it—in
the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no
companion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage.
When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the
straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high
window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of
spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night’s snow, and
the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice, dark like metal
where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. There was
a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat and looked
very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat gazing out of the
other window and took no notice of me.
I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her,
of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange place
I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what they
would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in the
coach gave me a terrible start.
It said, “What the de-vil are you crying for?”
I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a
whisper, “Me, sir?” For of course I knew it must have been the gentle-
man in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out of
his window.
“Yes, you,” he said, turning round.
“I didn’t know I was crying, sir,” I faltered.
“But you are!” said the gentleman. “Look here!” He came quite
opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of
his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and
showed me that it was wet.
“There! Now you know you are,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“And what are you crying for?” said the genfleman, “Don’t you
want to go there?”
“Where, sir?”
“Where? Why, wherever you are going,” said the gentleman.
“I am very glad to go there, sir,” I answered.

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“Well, then! Look glad!” said the gentleman.

I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of him
was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was
almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the side of his head
fastened under his chin; but I was composed again, and not afraid of
him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying because of my
godmother’s death and because of Mrs. Rachael’s not being sorry to part
with me.
“Confound Mrs. Rachael!” said the gentleman. “Let her fly away
in a high wind on a broomstick!”
I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the
greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes, al-
though he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and
calling Mrs. Rachael names.
After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to
me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down
into a deep pocket in the side.
“Now, look here!” he said. “In this paper,” which was nicely folded,
“is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money—sugar on
the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here’s a little pie
(a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do
you suppose it’s made of? Livers of fat geese. There’s a pie! Now let’s
see you eat ‘em.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied; “thank you very much indeed, but I
hope you won’t be offended—they are too rich for me.”
“Floored again!” said the gentleman, which I didn’t at all under-
stand, and threw them both out of window.
He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a
little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and
to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved
by his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it
afterwards, and never for a long time without thinking of him and
half expecting to meet him. But I never did; and so, as time went on,
he passed out of my mind.
When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the win-
dow and said, “Miss Donny.”
“No, ma’am, Esther Summerson.”

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 Dickens

“That is quite right,” said the lady, “Miss Donny.”

I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged
Miss Donny’s pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her
request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside a
very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the maid, and I got inside
and were driven away.
“Everything is ready for you, Esther,” said Miss Donny, “and the
scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with
the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce.”
“Of—did you say, ma’am?”
“Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce,” said Miss Donny.
I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been
too severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.
“Do you know my—guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma’am?” I asked af-
ter a good deal of hesitation.
“Not personally, Esther,” said Miss Donny; “merely through his
solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior
gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods
quite majestic!”
I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it. Our
speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover myself,
increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the uncertain and
the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss Donny’s house) that
afternoon!
But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of
Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great while
and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old life at my
godmother’s. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly than
Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round the dial of the
clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment.
We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins.
It was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my
qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in every-
thing that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in help-
ing to instruct others. Although I was treated in every other respect like
the rest of the school, this single difference was made in my case from
the first. As I began to know more, I taught more, and so in course of

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time I had plenty to do, which I was very fond of doing because it
made the dear girls fond of me. At last, whenever a new pupil came
who was a little downcast and unhappy, she was so sure—indeed I
don’t know why—to make a friend of me that all new-comers were
confided to my care. They said I was so gentle, but I am sure they were!
I often thought of the resolution I had made on my birthday to try to
be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to
some one and win some love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt
almost ashamed to have done so little and have won so much.
I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in any face there,
thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better if I had never
been born. When the day came round, it brought me so many tokens of
affectionate remembrance that my room was beautiful with them from
New Year’s Day to Christmas.
In those six years I had never been away except on visits at holiday
time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or so I had
taken Miss Donny’s advice in reference to the propriety of writing to
Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and with her ap-
proval I had written such a letter. I had received a formal answer
acknowledging its receipt and saying, “We note the contents thereof,
which shall be duly communicated to our client.” After that I some-
times heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how regular my
accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured to write a
similar letter. I always received by return of post exactly the same
answer in the same round hand, with the signature of Kenge and
Carboy in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr. Kenge’s.
It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about my-
self! As if this narrative were the narrative of my life! But my little body
will soon fall into the background now.
Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had
passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a
looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,
one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.
Old Square, Lincoln’s Inn
Madam,
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an

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 Dickens

Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom he

wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he
will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.
We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight o’clock
coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White Horse
Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be in waiting
to convey you to our offe as above.
We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,
Kenge and Carboy
Miss Esther Summerson

OH, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER shall I forget the emotion this letter caused
in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me, it was
so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to have made
my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so many
youthful natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it. Not that I
would have had them less sorry—I am afraid not; but the pleasure of
it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble
regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed almost breaking
while it was full of rapture.
The letter gave me only five days’ notice of my removal. When
every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given
me in those five days, and when at last the morning came and when
they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last
time, and when some cried, “Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here at
my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!” and when others
asked me only to write their names, “With Esther’s love,” and when
they all surrounded me with their parting presents and clung to me
weeping and cried, “What shall we do when dear, dear Esther’s gone!”
and when I tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had
all been to me and how I blessed and thanked them every one, what a
heart I had!
And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as
the least among them, and when the maids said, “Bless you, miss, wher-
ever you go!” and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had
hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give
me a little nosegay of geraniums and told me I had been the light of his

33
Bleak House

eyes—indeed the old man said so!—what a heart I had then!

And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the little school,
and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving their hats
and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman and lady whose
daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I had visited (who
were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring for noth-
ing but calling out, “Good-bye, Esther. May you be very happy!”—
could I help it if I was quite bowed down in the coach by myself and said
“Oh, I am so thankful, I am so thankful!” many times over!
But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I
was going after all that had been done for me. Therefore, of course, I
made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying very
often, “Esther, now you really must! This will not do!” I cheered
myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I was longer about it
than I ought to have been; and when I had cooled my eyes with
lavender water, it was time to watch for London.
I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles off,
and when we really were there, that we should never get there. However,
when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and particularly when every
other conveyance seemed to be running into us, and we seemed to be
running into every other conveyance, I began to believe that we really were
approaching the end of our journey. Very soon afterwards we stopped.
A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed
me from the pavement and said, “I am from Kenge and Carboy’s,
miss, of Lincoln’s Inn.”
“If you please, sir,” said I.
He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after superin-
tending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there was a
great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of dense brown smoke
that scarcely anything was to be seen.
“Oh, dear no, miss,” he said. “This is a London particular.”
I had never heard of such a thing.
“A fog, miss,” said the young gentleman.
“Oh, indeed!” said I.
We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever
were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state of
confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses, until we

34
 Dickens

passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove on through
a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there
was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a
church. And there really was a churchyard outside under some clois-
ters, for I saw the gravestones from the staircase window.
This was Kenge and Carboy’s. The young gentleman showed me
through an outer office into Mr. Kenge’s room—there was no one in
it—and politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called
my attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side
of the chimney-piece.
“In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the jour-
ney, as you’re going before the Chancellor. Not that it’s requisite, I
am sure,” said the young gentleman civilly.
“Going before the Chancellor?” I said, startled for a moment.
“Only a matter of form, miss,” returned the young gentleman.
“Mr. Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would
you partake of some refreshment”—there were biscuits and a de-
canter of wine on a small table—”and look over the paper,” which
the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire
and left me.
Everything was so strange—the stranger from its being night in
the day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking
raw and cold—that I read the words in the newspaper without know-
ing what they meant and found myself reading the same words re-
peatedly. As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper
down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and
looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,
dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the
most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for
themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the
fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on
flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers—until the young
gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair—for two hours.
At last Mr. Kenge came. He was not altered, but he was surprised
to see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. “As you are
going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the
Chancellor’s private room, Miss Summerson,” he said, “we thought

35
Bleak House

it well that you should be in attendance also. You will not be discom-
posed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?”
“No, sir,” I said, “I don’t think I shall,” really not seeing on consid-
eration why I should be.
So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner,
under a colonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a
passage, into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a
young gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A
screen was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on
the screen, talking.
They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young
lady, with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With
such rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, inno-
cent, trusting face!
“Miss Ada,” said Mr. Kenge, “this is Miss Summerson.”
She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand ex-
tended, but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me.
In short, she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in
a few minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of
the fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.
What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that she
could confide in me and like me! It was so good of her, and so en-
couraging to me!
The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his
name Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth with an ingenu-
ous face and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up
to where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking gaily,
like a light-hearted boy. He was very young, not more than nineteen
then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. They
were both orphans and (what was very unexpected and curious to
me) had never met before that day. Our all three coming together for
the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and
we talked about it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked
its red eyes at us—as Richard said—like a drowsy old Chancery lion.
We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a
bag wig frequenfly came in and out, and when he did so, we could
hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the

36
 Dickens

counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr.

Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and pres-
ently we heard a bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said that
the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.
The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly
and requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into
the next room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling—it is so natural to
me now that I can’t help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black
and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship,
whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon
another chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, but his
manner was both courtly and kind.
The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship’s
table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned over the leaves.
“Miss Clare,” said the Lord Chancellor. “Miss Ada Clare?”
Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down
near him. That he admired her and was interested by her even I could
see in a moment. It touched me that the home of such a beautiful
young creature should be represented by that dry, official place. The
Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for
the love and pride of parents.
“The Jarndyce in question,” said the Lord Chancellor, still turning
over leaves, “is Jarndyce of Bleak House.”
“Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,” said Mr. Kenge.
“A dreary name,” said the Lord Chancellor.
“But not a dreary place at present, my lord,” said Mr. Kenge.
“And Bleak House,” said his lordship, “is in—”
“Hertfordshire, my lord.”
“Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?” said his lordship.
“He is not, my lord,” said Mr. Kenge.
A pause.
“Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?” said the Lord Chancel-
lor, glancing towards him.
Richard bowed and stepped forward.
“Hum!” said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.
“Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,” Mr. Kenge observed in a
low voice, “if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a

37
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suitable companion for—”

“For Mr. Richard Carstone?” I thought (but I am not quite sure) I heard
his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.
“For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson.”
His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my
curtsy very graciously.
“Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?”
“No, my lord.”
Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered. His
lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or
thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again
until we were going away.
Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was,
near the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I
can’t help it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lord-
ship spoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether
she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she
thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of
Bleak House, and why she thought so? Presently he rose courte-
ously and released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with
Richard Carstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with
more ease and less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he was
Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy.
“Very well!” said his lordship aloud. “I shall make the order. Mr.
Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge,” and this
was when he looked at me, “a very good companion for the young
lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the
circumstances admit.”
He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged
to him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly lost
no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.
When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that
he must go back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the
fog, with the Lord Chancellor’s carriage and servants waiting for him
to come out.
“Well!” said Richard Carstone. “That’s over! And where do we go
next, Miss Summerson?”

38
 Dickens

“Don’t you know?” I said.

“Not in the least,” said he.
“And don’t you know, my love?” I asked Ada.
“No!” said she. “Don’t you?”
“Not at all!” said I.
We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the chil-
dren in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed
bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us
with an air of great ceremony.
“Oh!” said she. “The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to
have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty
when they find themselves in this place, and don’t know what’s to
come of it.”
“Mad!” whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.
“Right! Mad, young gentleman,” she returned so quickly that he
was quite abashed. “I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time,”
curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. “I had youth
and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of the
three served or saved me. I have the honour to attend court regularly.
With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of
Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the
Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time! Pray
accept my blessing.”
As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old lady,
that we were much obliged to her.
“Ye-es!” she said mincingly. “I imagine so. And here is Conversa-
tion Kenge. With his documents! How does your honourable wor-
ship do?”
“Quite well, quite well! Now don’t be troublesome, that’s a good
soul!” said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.
“By no means,” said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and
me. “Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both—
which is not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly.
On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my
blessing!”
She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but we
looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still with a

39
Bleak House

curtsy and a smile between every little sentence, “Youth. And hope.
And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Kenge! Ha! Pray accept
my blessing!”

40
 Dickens

CHAPTER IV

Telescopic Philanthropy
WE WERE TO PASS THE NIGHT, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived in
his room, at Mrs. Jellyby’s; and then he turned to me and said he
took it for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was.
“I really don’t, sir,” I returned. “Perhaps Mr. Carstone—or Miss
Clare—”
But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. “In-deed!
Mrs. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire and
casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs. Jellyby’s
biography, “is a lady of very remarkable strength of character who
devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted herself to an
extensive variety of public subjects at various times and is at present
(until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of Africa,
with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry—and the
natives—and the happy settlement, on the banks of the African riv-
ers, of our superabundant home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is
desirous to aid any work that is considered likely to be a good work
and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a
very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby.”
Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.
“And Mr. Jellyby, sir?” suggested Richard.
“Ah! Mr. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, “is—a—I don’t know that I
can describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband
of Mrs. Jellyby.”
“A nonentity, sir?” said Richard with a droll look.
“I don’t say that,” returned Mr. Kenge gravely. “I can’t say that,

41
Bleak House

indeed, for I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Jellyby. I never, to my

knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a very
superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged—merged—in the more
shining qualities of his wife.” Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell us that as
the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and te-
dious on such an evening, and as we had been travelling already, Mr.
Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. A carriage would
be at Mrs. Jellyby’s to convey us out of town early in the forenoon of
to-morrow.
He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in. Ad-
dressing him by the name of Guppy, Mr. Kenge inquired whether
Miss Summerson’s boxes and the rest of the baggage had been “sent
round.” Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach
was waiting to take us round too as soon as we pleased.
“Then it only remains,” said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with us, “for
me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare!) the ar-
rangement this day concluded and my (good- bye to you, Miss
Summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the (glad
to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, Mr. Carstone!)
welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all concerned! Guppy, see
the party safely there.”
“Where is ‘there,’ Mr. Guppy?” said Richard as we went down-
stairs.
“No distance,” said Mr. Guppy; “round in Thavies Inn, you know.”
“I can’t say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am
strange in London.”
“Only round the corner,” said Mr. Guppy. “We just twist up Chan-
cery Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four minutes’
time, as near as a toucher. This is about a London particular now,
ain’t it, miss?” He seemed quite delighted with it on my account.
“The fog is very dense indeed!” said I.
“Not that it affects you, though, I’m sure,” said Mr. Guppy, put-
ting up the steps. “On the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss,
judging from your appearance.”
I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed
at myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon
the box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our inexperience

42
 Dickens

and the strangeness of London until we turned up under an archway

to our destination—a narrow street of high houses like an oblong
cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd of people,
principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped,
which had a tarnished brass plate on the door with the inscription
Jellyby.
“Don’t be frightened!” said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach-
window. “One of the young Jellybys been and got his head through
the area railings!”
“Oh, poor child,” said I; “let me out, if you please!”
“Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always
up to something,” said Mr. Guppy.
I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little
unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and
crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a
milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were en-
deavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression
that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after paci-
fying him) that he was a little boy with a naturally large head, I thought
that perhaps where his head could go, his body could follow, and men-
tioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him for-
ward. This was so favourably received by the milkman and beadle that
he would immediately have been pushed into the area if I had not held
his pinafore while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the
kitchen to catch him when he should be released. At last he was hap-
pily got down without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr.
Guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.
Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in
pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom;
I don’t know with what object, and I don’t think she did. I therefore
supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home, and was quite surprised
when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and go-
ing up to the back room on the first floor before Ada and me, an-
nounced us as, “Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby!” We passed
several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid
treading on in the dark; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby’s presence,
one of the poor little things fell Downstairs—down a whole flight (as

43
Bleak House

it sounded to me), with a great noise.

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we
could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child’s head re-
corded its passage with a bump on every stair— Richard afterwards
said he counted seven, besides one for the landing—received us with
perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman
of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious
habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if—I am quoting Richard
again—they could see nothing nearer than Africa!
“I am very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Jellyby in an agreeable voice, “to
have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.
Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of
indifference to me.”
We expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door,
where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very good
hair but was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it.
The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped onto her
chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat,
we could not help noticing that her dress didn’t nearly meet up the
back and that the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of
stay-lace—like a summer-house.
The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a
great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not
only very untidy but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of
that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing,
we followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: I think
into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.
But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking
though by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat biting the
feather of her pen and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever was in such
a state of ink. And from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which
were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at
heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin
upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right place.
“You find me, my dears,” said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two great
office candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room taste strongly
of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the

44
 Dickens

grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), “you find me, my
dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African project
at present employs my whole time. It involves me in correspondence
with public bodies and with private individuals anxious for the wel-
fare of their species all over the country. I am happy to say it is ad-
vancing. We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and
fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educat-
ing the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger.”
As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very
gratifying.
“It is gratifying,” said Mrs. Jellyby. “It involves the devotion of all
my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds;
and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know, Miss
Summerson, I almost wonder that you never turned your thoughts
to Africa.”
This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that
I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the Climate—
“The finest climate in the world!” said Mrs. Jellyby.
“Indeed, ma’am?”
“Certainly. With precaution,” said Mrs. Jellyby. “You may go into Holborn,
without precaution, and be run over. You may go into Holborn, with precaution,
and never be run over. Just so with Africa.”
I said, “No doubt.” I meant as to Holborn.
“If you would like,” said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers
towards us, “to look over some remarks on that head, and on the
general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I finish
a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my amanu-
ensis—”
The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to our
recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.
“—I shall then have finished for the present,” proceeded Mrs. Jellyby
with a sweet smile, “though my work is never done. Where are you,
Caddy?”
“‘Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs—’” said
Caddy.
“‘And begs,’” said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, “‘to inform him, in refer-
ence to his letter of inquiry on the African project—’ No, Peepy! Not

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on my account!”
Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen
downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting
himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded
knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most—the
bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the serene com-
posure with which she said everything, “Go along, you naughty
Peepy!” and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.
However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I
interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy
as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He looked very
much astonished at it and at Ada’s kissing him, but soon fell fast
asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he
was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail,
though I derived such a general impression from it of the momen-
tous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all other
places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little
about it.
“Six o’clock!” said Mrs. Jellyby. “And our dinner hour is nomi-
nally (for we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and
Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change,
perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh,
that very bad child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!”
I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at
all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed.
Ada and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication
between. They were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain
to my window was fastened up with a fork.
“You would like some hot water, wouldn’t you?” said Miss Jellyby,
looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.
“If it is not being troublesome,” said we.
“Oh, it’s not the trouble,” returned Miss Jellyby; “the question is,
if there is any.”
The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy
smell that I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was half
crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when
Miss Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot

46
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water, but they couldn’t find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.
We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could
to get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up
to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on
my bed, and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition
of noses and fingers in situations of danger between the hinges of the
doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my
lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and
though the handle of Ada’s went round and round with the greatest
smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door.
Therefore I proposed to the children that they should come in and
be very good at my table, and I would tell them the story of Little
Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did, and were as quiet
as mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appear-
ance of the wolf.
When we went downstairs we found a mug with “A Present from
Tunbridge Wells” on it lighted up in the staircase window with a float-
ing wick, and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a
flannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected
by an open door with Mrs. Jellyby’s room) and choking dreadfully. It
smoked to that degree, in short, that we all sat coughing and crying
with the windows open for half an hour, during which Mrs. Jellyby,
with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her
being so employed was, I must say, a great relief to me, for Richard
told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had
found the kettle on his dressing-table, and he made Ada laugh so that
they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner.
Soon after seven o’clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by
Mrs. Jellyby’s advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being very defi-
cient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine
cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an
excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was
almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and
dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and
never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had
seen in pattens, who I suppose to have been the cook, frequently
came and skirmished with her at the door,

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and there appeared to be ill will between them.

All through dinner—which was long, in consequence of such acci-
dents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle and the
handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young woman
in the chin—Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition.
She told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha
and the natives, and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by
her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters were
proceedings of ladies’ committees or resolutions of ladies’ meetings,
which she read to us; others were applications from people excited in
various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives; others re-
quired answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table
three or four times to write. She was full of business and undoubt-
edly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause.
I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in spec-
tacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or
bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed pas-
sively to submit himself to Borriohoola-Gha but not to be actively
interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word, he might
have been a native but for his complexion. It was not until we left
the table and he remained alone with Richard that the possibility of
his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he was Mr. Jellyby;
and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with large shining
knobs for temples and his hair all brushed to the back of his head,
who came in the evening, and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also
informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby
with Mr. Jellyby the union of mind and matter.
This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about
Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach the
natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export trade, delighted
in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saving, “I believe now, Mrs. Jellyby,
you have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two hun-
dred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have you not?” or, “If my
memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that
you had sent off five thousand circulars from one post-office at one
time?”—always repeating Mrs. Jellyby’s answer to us like an inter-
preter. During the whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his

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head against the wall as if he were subject to low spirits. It seemed that
he had several times opened his mouth when alone with Richard after
dinner, as if he had something on his mind, but had always shut it
again, to Richard’s extreme confusion, without saying anything.
Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all
the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She also
held a discussion with Mr. Quale, of which the subject seemed to
be—if I understood it—the brotherhood of humanity, and gave ut-
terance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an audi-
tor as I might have wished to be, however, for Peepy and the other
children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the drawing-
room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and told
them in whispers “Puss in Boots” and I don’t know what else until
Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed. As
Peepy cried for me to take him to bed, I carried him upstairs, where
the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst
of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs.
After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and
in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, which at
last it did, quite brightly. On my return downstairs, I felt that Mrs.
Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous, and I
was sorry for it, though at the same time I knew that I had no higher
pretensions.
It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going
to bed, and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drink-
ing coffee and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.
“What a strange house!” said Ada when we got upstairs. “How
curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!”
“My love,” said I, “it quite confuses me. I want to understand it,
and I can’t understand it at all.”
“What?” asked Ada with her pretty smile.
“All this, my dear,” said I. “It must be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to
take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives—and yet—
Peepy and the housekeeping!”
Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at the
fire, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature and had won her
heart. “You are so thoughtful, Esther,” she said, “and yet so cheerful! And

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you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a home out of

even this house.”
My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised
herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she
made so much of me!
“May I ask you a question?” said I when we had sat before the fire
a little while.
“Five hundred,” said Ada.
“Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you
mind describing him to me?”
Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such
laughing wonder that I was full of wonder too, partly at her beauty,
partly at her surprise.
“Esther!” she cried.
“My dear!”
“You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?”
“My dear, I never saw him.”
“And I never saw him!” returned Ada.
Well, to be sure!
No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama
died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when
she spoke of him and of the noble generosity of his character, which
she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted
it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago—”a
plain, honest letter,” Ada said—proposing the arrangement we were
now to enter on and telling her that “in time it might heal some of
the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit.” She had
replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. Richard had received a similar
letter and had made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr. Jarndyce
once, but only once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had
told Ada, when they were leaning on the screen before the fire where
I found them, that he recollected him as “a bluff, rosy fellow.” This
was the utmost description Ada could give me.
It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleep, I still remained
before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and
wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long
ago. I don’t know where my thoughts had wandered when they were

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recalled by a tap at the door.

I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a
broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in
the other.
“Good night!” she said very sulkily.
“Good night!” said I.
“May I come in?” she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the
same sulky way.
“Certainly,” said I. “Don’t wake Miss Clare.”
She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky
middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing
it over the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and look-
ing very gloomy.
“I wish Africa was dead!” she said on a sudden.
I was going to remonstrate.
“I do!” she said “Don’t talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and
detest it. It’s a beast!”
I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her
head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would
be cool tomorrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at me, but
presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed
where Ada lay.
“She is very pretty!” she said with the same knitted brow and in
the same uncivil manner.
I assented with a smile.
“An orphan. Ain’t she?”
“Yes.”
“But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and
sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes,
and needlework, and everything?”
“No doubt,” said I.
“I can’t,” she returned. “I can’t do anything hardly, except
write. I’m always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not
ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to
do nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves
very fine, I dare say!”
I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my

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chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt

towards her.
“It’s disgraceful,” she said. “You know it is. The whole house is
disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I’M disgraceful. Pa’s miser-
able, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks—she’s always drinking. It’s a
great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn’t smell her
today. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it
was!”
“My dear, I don’t know it,” said I.
“You do,” she said very shortly. “You shan’t say you don’t. You do!”
“Oh, my dear!” said I. “If you won’t let me speak—”
“You’re speaking now. You know you are. Don’t tell stories, Miss
Summerson.”
“My dear,” said I, “as long as you won’t hear me out—”
“I don’t want to hear you out.”
“Oh, yes, I think you do,” said I, “because that would be so very
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant
did not come near me at dinner; but I don’t doubt what you tell me,
and I am sorry to hear it.”
“You needn’t make a merit of that,” said she.
“No, my dear,” said I. “That would be very foolish.”
She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still
with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she
came softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was
heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but I thought it
better not to speak.
“I wish I was dead!” she broke out. “I wish we were all dead. It
would be a great deal better for us.
In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid
her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I
comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she
wanted to stay there!
“You used to teach girls,” she said, “If you could only have taught
me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like
you so much!”
I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move
a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold

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my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girl fell asleep,
and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap,
and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night
long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully
awake and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among
the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indis-
tinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting
on me. Now it was Ada, now one of my old Reading friends from
whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now it was the
little mad woman worn out with curtsying and smiling, now some
one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no
one.
The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened
my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon
me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and
cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut
them all.

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CHAPTER V

A Morning Adventure
ALTHOUGH THE MORNING WAS RAW, and although the fog still seemed
heavy—I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt that
they would have made midsummer sunshine dim—I was sufficiently
forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour and suf-
ficiently curious about London to think it a good idea on the part of
Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk.
“Ma won’t be down for ever so long,” she said, “and then it’s a
chance if breakfast’s ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. As
to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has what
you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the loaf
and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes there isn’t
any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I’m afraid you must
be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you would rather go to bed.”
“I am not at all tired, my dear,” said I, “and would much prefer to
go out.”
“If you’re sure you would,” returned Miss Jellyby, “I’ll get my things
on.”
Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a proposal
to Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that
he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed
again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at me
during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never could
again be, so astonished in his life—looking very miserable also, cer-
tainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon
as it was over. At first I was in two minds about taking such a liberty,

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but I soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it.
What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of get-
ting myself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We
found Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-
room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candle-
stick, throwing the candle in to make it burn better. Everything was
just as we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain
so. Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had
been left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all
over the house. Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area
railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner
coming out of a public-house, wiping her
mouth. She mentioned, as she passed us, that she had been to see
what o’clock it was.
But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing up
and down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to
see us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk. So he
took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may mention
that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and that I really
should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told me so.
“Where would you wish to go?” she asked.
“Anywhere, my dear,” I replied.
“Anywhere’s nowhere,” said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely.
“Let us go somewhere at any rate,” said I.
She then walked me on very fast.
“I don’t care!” she said. “Now, you are my witness, Miss Summerson,
I say I don’t care-but if he was to come to our house with his great,
shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as Methuselah,
I wouldn’t have anything to say to him. Such asses as he and Ma make
of themselves!”
“My dear!” I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the vig-
orous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. “Your duty as a child—”
“Oh! Don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where’s Ma’s
duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose!
Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more
their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I
shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it!”

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She walked me on faster yet.

“But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come,
and I won’t have anything to say to him. I can’t bear him. If there’s
any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it’s the stuff he and Ma
talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have
the patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and
contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma’s management!”
I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young
gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the
disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Ada
coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to
run a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked
moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions and
varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro,
the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations
in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping out of shops,
and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the
swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.
“So, cousin,” said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada behind me.
“We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way
to our place of meeting yesterday, and—by the Great Seal, here’s the
old lady again!”
Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and
smiling, and saying with her yesterday’s air of patronage, “The wards
in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!”
“You are out early, ma’am,” said I as she curtsied to me.
“Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It’s
retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day,” said
the old lady mincingly. “The business of the day requires a great deal
of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow.”
“Who’s this, Miss Summerson?” whispered Miss Jellyby, drawing
my arm tighter through her own.
The little old lady’s hearing was remarkably quick. She answered
for herself directly.
“A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend
court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of address-
ing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?” said the old lady,

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recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low curtsy.
Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-
naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the suit.
“Ha!” said the old lady. “She does not expect a judgment? She will
still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of
Lincoln’s Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-
time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater part of the
long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long vacation ex-
ceedingly long, don’t you?”
We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.
“When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more
flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord
Chancellor’s court,” said the old lady, “the vacation is fulfilled and
the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray
come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth,
and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time
since I had a visit from either.”
She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Jellyby away,
beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to
excuse myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused
and half curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady
without offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and Ada
continued to follow, our strange conductress informing us all the
time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by.
It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by that we
had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before
she was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady
stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some
courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said,
“This is my lodging. Pray walk up!”
She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG
AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters,
KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of the win-
dow was a picture of a red paper mill at which a cart was unloading a
quantity of sacks of old rags. In another was the inscription BONES
BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another,
OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT.

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Bleak House

In another, LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S WARDROBES

BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold
there. In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles—
blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles,
pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles; I am reminded by mention-
ing the latter that the shop had in several little particulars the air of
being in a legal neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-
on and disowned relation of the law. There were a great many ink
bottles. There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes
outside the door, labelled “Law Books, all at 9d.” Some of the inscrip-
tions I have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had
seen in Kenge and Carboy’s office and the letters I had so long received
from the firm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having noth-
ing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respect-
able man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with
neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within.
There were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. A little
way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls
and discoloured and dog’s-eared law-papers. I could have fancied that all
the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled to-
gether as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests
in lawyers’ offices. The litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out
of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a
beam, might have been counsellors’ bands and gowns torn up. One had
only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood
looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very
clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.
As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides
by the wall of Lincoln’s Inn, intercepting the light within a couple of
yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that
an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the
shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was
short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways be-
tween his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his
mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows
were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puck-
ered skin that he looked from his breast upward like some old root
in a fall of snow.
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“Hi, hi!” said the old man, coming to the door. “Have you any-
thing to sell?”
We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had
been trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from
her pocket, and to whom Richard now said that as we had had the
pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed
for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so fantasti-
cally and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up
and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her harmless
way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired, that I
(whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to comply. I
suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when the old
man added his persuasions to hers and said, “Aye, aye! Please her! It
won’t take a minute! Come in,
come in! Come in through the shop if t’other door’s out of order!”
we all went in, stimulated by Richard’s laughing encouragement and
relying on his protection.
“My landlord, Krook,” said the little old lady, condescending to
him from her lofty station as she presented him to us. “He is called
among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the
Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh,
I assure you he is very odd!”
She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead
with her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to
excuse him, “For he is a little—you know—M!” said the old lady
with great stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.
“It’s true enough,” he said, going before us with the lantern, “that
they call me the lord chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And
why do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop
Chancery?”
“I don’t know, I am sure!” said Richard rather carelessly.
“You see,” said the old man, stopping and turning round, “they—
Hi! Here’s lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies’ hair below, but
none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!”
“That’ll do, my good friend!” said Richard, strongly disapproving
of his having drawn one of Ada’s tresses through his yellow hand.
“You can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty.”

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The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my
attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably
beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the little
old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said she could
only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Krook shrunk into
his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.
“You see, I have so many things here,” he resumed, holding up the
lantern, “of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but they
know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that’s
why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so
many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking
for rust and must and cobwebs. And all’s fish that comes to
my net. And I can’t abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or
so my neighbours think, but what do they know?) or to alter any-
thing, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor re-
pairing going on about me. That’s the way I’ve got the ill name of
Chancery. I don’t mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother
pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don’t notice me,
but I notice him. There’s no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on
in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane!”
A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoul-
der and startled us all.
“Hi! Show ‘em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!” said her master.
The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish
claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.
“She’d do as much for any one I was to set her on,” said the old
man. “I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was
offered to me. It’s a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn’t have
it stripped off! that warn’t like Chancery practice though, says you!”
He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in
the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his hand
upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him before pass-
ing out, “That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My
young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare myself, having to
attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards in Jarndyce.”
“Jarndyce!” said the old man with a start.
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook,” returned his lodger.

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“Hi!” exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement

and with a wider stare than before. “Think of it!”
He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us
that Richard said, “Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal
about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other
Chancellor!”
“Yes,” said the old man abstractedly. “Sure! your name now will
be—”
“Richard Carstone.”
“Carstone,” he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his
forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a
separate finger. “Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name
of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think.”
“He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!”
said Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me.
“Aye!” said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction.
“Yes! Tom Jarndyce—you’ll excuse me, being related; but he was
never known about court by any other name, and was as well known
there as—she is now,” nodding slightly at his lodger. “Tom Jarndyce
was often in here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when
the cause was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and
telling ‘em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. ‘For,’ says he,
‘it’s being ground to bits in a slow mill; it’s being roasted at a slow
fire; it’s being stung to death by single bees; it’s being drowned by
drops; it’s going mad by grains.’ He was as near making away with
himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be.”
We listened with horror.
“He come in at the door,” said the old man, slowly pointing an
imaginary track along the shop, “on the day he did it—the whole
neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of
a certainty sooner or later—he come in at the door that day, and
walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there,
and asked me (you’ll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to
fetch him a pint of wine. ‘For,’ says he, ‘Krook, I am much de-
pressed; my cause is on again, and I think I’m nearer judgment than
I ever was.’ I hadn’t a mind to leave him alone; and I persuaded him
to go to the tavern over the way there, t’other side my lane (I mean

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Chancery Lane); and I followed and looked in at the window, and

saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire,
and company with him. I hadn’t hardly got back here when I heard
a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out—
neighbours ran out—twenty of us cried at once, ‘Tom Jarndyce!’”
The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the
lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.
“We were right, I needn’t tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure,
how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the
cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of
‘em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they
hadn’t heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they had—Oh,
dear me!—nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of it by any
chance!”
Ada’s colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less
pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I
was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a
shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended
in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I had
another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor
half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise,
she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way up-
stairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior creature
for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was “a little
M, you know!”
She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from
which she had a glimpse of Lincoln’s Inn Hall. This seemed to have
been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence
there. She could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the
moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the
scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from
books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and
some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, “containing documents,” as
she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and
I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a
shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so
forth, but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in

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her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had

understood before.
“Extremely honoured, I am sure,” said our poor hostess with the greatest
suavity, “by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much in-
debted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I am limited
as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of attending on the Chan-
cellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings
and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep but little and think
much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I
cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place
my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don’t mind con-
fessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes
find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here.
I have felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse
the introduction of such mean topics.”
She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window
and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there,
some containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and gold-
finches—I should think at least twenty.
“I began to keep the little creatures,” she said, “with an object that
the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of restoring
them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es! They
die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in
comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole
collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know, whether
one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! Ve-ry
mortifying, is it not?”
Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to
expect a reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so
when no one but herself was present.
“Indeed,” she pursued, “I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure
you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or Great
Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and sense-
less here, as I have found so many birds!”
Richard, answering what he saw in Ada’s compassionate eyes, took
the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on
the chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to exam-
ine the birds.
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“I can’t allow them to sing much,” said the little old lady, “for
(you’ll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that
they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And
my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I’ll
tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen,
they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth,” a smile and
curtsy, “hope,” a smile and curtsy, “and beauty,” a smile and curtsy.
“There! We’ll let in the full light.”
The birds began to stir and chirp.
“I cannot admit the air freely,” said the little old lady—the room
was close, and would have been the better for it—”because the cat you
saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches
on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have discovered,” whis-
pering mysteriously, “that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous
fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment I
expect being shortly given. She is sly and full of malice. I half believe,
sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so
very difficult to keep her from the door.”
Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-
past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end
than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly took up
her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on
coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. On our an-
swering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened
the door to attend us downstairs.
“With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I
should be there before the Chancellor comes in,” said she, “for he
might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he will
mention it the first thing this morning”
She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the
whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had
bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a
little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous stop-
page on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door there.
“The only other lodger,” she now whispered in explanation, “a law-
writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the
devil. I don’t know what he can have done with the money. Hush!”

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She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there,
and repeating “Hush!” went before us on tiptoe as though even the
sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.
Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through
it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets
of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be work-
ing hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a
piece of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or
bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall.
Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady had gone
by him, and I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me,
and chalked the letter J upon the wall—in a very curious manner,
beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It was
a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in
Messrs. Kenge and Carboy’s office would have made.
“Can you read it?” he asked me with a keen glance.
“Surely,” said I. “It’s very plain.”
“What is it?”
“J.”
With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it
out and turned an “a” in its place (not a capital letter this time), and
said, “What’s that?”
I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter “r,” and
asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed
in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of
the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on
the wall together.
“What does that spell?” he asked me.
When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the
same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the
letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonish-
ment, I also read; and he laughed again.
“Hi!” said the old man, laying aside the chalk. “I have a turn for copy-
ing from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write.”
He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as
if I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite re-
lieved by Richard’s appearing at the door and saying, “Miss

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Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair.
Don’t be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr.
Krook!”
I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning and joining
my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who
gave us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance
of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada
and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back
and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, look-
ing after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up
on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather.
“Quite an adventure for a morning in London!” said Richard with
a sigh. “Ah, cousin, cousin, it’s a weary word this Chancery!”
“It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember,” returned
Ada. “I am grieved that I should be the enemy—-as I suppose I
am—of a great number of relations and others, and that they should
be my enemies—as I suppose they are—and that we should all be
ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in con-
stant doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there
must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has
not been able to find out through all these years where it is.”
“Ah, cousin!” said Richard. “Strange, indeed! All this wasteful,
wanton chess-playing is very strange. To see that composed court
yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of
the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both
together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men
were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could
possibly be either. But at all events, Ada—I may call you Ada?”
“Of course you may, cousin Richard.”
“At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on us.
We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kins-
man, and it can’t divide us now!”
“Never, I hope, cousin Richard!” said Ada gently.
Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. I
smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly.
In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and in the
course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled

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one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs. Jellyby
had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she presented
no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly occupied
during breakfast, for the morning’s post brought a heavy correspon-
dence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her (she
said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and notched
memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were perfect little
calendars of distress; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and
brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable
manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and his
restoration to the family circle surprised us all.
She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddy
was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found
her. At one o’clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our
luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her
good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed
me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps;
Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation
(I was not without misgivings that he had gone to
Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up
behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great con-
cern, scattered over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out of its
precincts.

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CHAPTER VI

Quite at Home
THE DAY HAD BRIGHTENED very much, and still brightened as we went
westward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air,
wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy
of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the
pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured
flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to pro-
ceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty
large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country road
again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers’ waggons, scents
of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs: trees, fields, and hedge-
rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape before us and the
immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train of
beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding
bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have
sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around.
“The whole road has been reminding me of my name-sake
Whittington,” said Richard, “and that waggon is the finishing touch.
Halloa! What’s the matter?”
We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music
changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tin-
kling, except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and
sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing.
“Our postilion is looking after the waggoner,” said Richard, “and
the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!” The
waggoner was at our coach-door. “Why, here’s an extraordinary thing!”

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added Richard, looking closely at the man. “He has got your name,
Ada, in his hat!”
He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three
small notes—one addressed to Ada, one to Richard, one to me. These the
waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first.
In answer to Richard’s inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered,
“Master, sir, if you please”; and putting on his hat again (which was like a
soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodi-
ously away.
“Is that Mr. Jarndyce’s waggon?” said Richard, calling to our post-boy.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Going to London.”
We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other and
contained these words in a solid, plain hand.

“I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without con-

straint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we meet as old
friends and take the past for granted. It will be a relief to you possi-
bly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you.
John Jarndyce”

I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my

companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking
one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through
so many years. I had not considered how I could thank him, my
gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to
consider how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it
would be very difficult indeed.
The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that
they both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that
their cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kind-
ness he performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort
to the most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away.
Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was
a very little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon
generosity and that on her going to his house to thank him, he hap-
pened to see her through a window coming to the door, and imme-
diately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three

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months. This discourse led to a great deal more on the same theme,
and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked of scarcely anything else.
If we did by any chance diverge into another subject, we soon re-
turned to this, and wondered what the house would be like, and
when we should get there, and whether we should see Mr. Jarndyce
as soon as we arrived or after a delay, and what he would say to us,
and what we should say to him. All of which we wondered about,
over and over again.
The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was
generally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked
it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we
got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but
as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got
a long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the
carriage came up. These delays so protracted the journey that the
short day was spent and the long night had closed in before we came
to St. Albans, near to which town Bleak House was, we knew.
By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Richard
confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling an
irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me, whom he had
wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and frosty, we
trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of the town, round
a corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy, who had for a long
time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was looking back
and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (Richard holding Ada
lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the open
country and the starlight night for our
destination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before us,
and the driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying, “That’s Bleak
House!” put his horses into a canter and took us forward at such a
rate, uphill though it was, that the wheels sent the road drift flying
about our heads like spray from a water-mill. Presently we lost the
light, presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned
into an avenue of trees and cantered up towards where it was beam-
ing brightly. It was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fash-
ioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep
leading to the porch. A bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the

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sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of
some dogs, and a gush of
light from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of the
heated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, we
alighted in no inconsiderable confusion.
“Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see
you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it you!”
The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable
voice had one of his arms round Ada’s waist and the other round
mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall
into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. Here he
kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit down side by side
on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been at
all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment.
“Now, Rick!” said he. “I have a hand at liberty. A word in
earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at
home. Warm yourself!”
Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect
and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that rather alarmed
me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce’s suddenly disappearing), “You are very
kind, sir! We are very much obliged to you!” laid aside his hat and coat and
came up to the fire.
“And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Jellyby,
my dear?” said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada.
While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I need not say
with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick
face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron-grey. I
took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and
robust. From the moment of his first speaking to us his voice had
connected itself with an association in my mind that I could not de-
fine; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his manner and a
pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman in the stagecoach
six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to Reading. I was
certain it was he. I never was so frightened in my life as when I made
the discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my
thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I thought we had lost him.
However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked

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me what I thought of Mrs. Jellyby.

“She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir,” I said.
“Nobly!” returned Mr. Jarndyce. “But you answer like Ada.” Whom
I had not heard. “You all think something else, I see.”
“We rather thought,” said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, who
entreated me with their eyes to speak, “that perhaps she was a little
unmindful of her home.”
“Floored!” cried Mr. Jarndyce.
I was rather alarmed again.
“Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have
sent you there on purpose.”
“We thought that, perhaps,” said I, hesitating, “it is right to begin
with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are
overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substi-
tuted for them.”
“The little Jellybys,” said Richard, coming to my relief, “are re-
ally—I can’t help expressing myself strongly, sir—in a devil of a state.”
“She means well,” said Mr. Jarndyce hastily. “The wind’s in the east.”
“It was in the north, sir, as we came down,” observed Richard.
“My dear Rick,” said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire, “I’ll take an
oath it’s either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of an
uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in
the east.”
“Rheumatism, sir?” said Richard.
“I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell
—I had my doubts about ‘em—are in a—oh, Lord, yes, it’s
easterly!” said Mr. Jarndyce.
He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while
uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and
rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at
once so whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were more de-
lighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any words.
He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richard bring
a candle, was leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all
back again.
“Those little Jellybys. Couldn’t you—didn’t you—now, if it had
rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of

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 Dickens

that sort!” said Mr. Jarndyce.

“Oh, cousin—” Ada hastily began.
“Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is better.”
“Then, cousin John—” Ada laughingly began again.
“Ha, ha! Very good indeed!” said Mr. Jarndyce with great
enjoyment. “Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?”
“It did better than that. It rained Esther.”
“Aye?” said Mr. Jarndyce. “What did Esther do?”
“Why, cousin John,” said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm
and shaking her head at me across him—for I wanted her to be quiet—
“Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed them to
sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet,
bought them keepsakes”—My dear girl! I had only gone out with
Peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!—“and,
cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much
and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won’t be
contradicted, Esther dear! You know, you know, it’s true!”
The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John and kissed
me, and then looking up in his face, boldly said, “At all events, cousin
John, I will thank you for the companion you have given me.” I felt
as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn’t.
“Where did you say the wind was, Rick?” asked Mr. Jarndyce.
“In the north as we came down, sir.”
“You are right. There’s no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come,
girls, come and see your home!”
It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up
and down steps out of one room into another, and where you come
upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and
where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and
where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places with
lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine,
which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof
that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and a
chimney (there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with
pure white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire
was blazing. Out of this room, you went down two steps into a
charming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden,

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Bleak House

which room was henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this
you went up three steps into Ada’s bedroom, which had a fine broad
window commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of
darkness lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollow
window-seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear Adas might
have been lost at once. Out of this room you passed into a little
gallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated,
and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps with a number of corner
stairs in it, considering its length, down into the hall. But if instead
of going out at Ada’s door you came back into my room, and went
out at the door by which you had entered it, and turned up a few
crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected manner from the
stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles in them, and three-
cornered tables, and a native Hindu chair, which was also a sofa, a
box, and a bedstead, and looked in every form something between a
bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and had been brought from
India nobody knew by whom or when. From these you came on
Richard’s room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bed-
room, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of many rooms.
Out of that you went straight, with a little interval of passage, to the
plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his
window open, his bedstead without any furniture standing in the
middle of the floor for more air, and his cold bath gaping for him in
a smaller room adjoining. Out of that you came into another pas-
sage, where there were back-stairs and where you could hear the horses
being rubbed down outside the stable and being told to “Hold up”
and “Get over,” as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones.
Or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at
least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen
steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back there or had
ever got out of it.
The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was
as pleasantly irregular. Ada’s sleeping-room was all flowers—in chintz
and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff courtly
chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for greater
state, on either side of the fire-place. Our sitting-room was green and
had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of surprising and

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 Dickens

surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as

brown and shining as if it had been served with gravy; at the death of
Captain Cook; and at the whole process of preparing tea in China, as
depicted by Chinese artists. In my room there were oval engravings
of the months—ladies
haymaking in short waists and large hats tied under the chin, for
June; smooth-legged noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village
steeples, for October. Half-length portraits in crayons abounded all
through the house, but were so dispersed that I found the brother of
a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet and the grey old age of
my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice, in the breakfast-
room. As substitutes, I had four angels, of Queen Anne’s reign, tak-
ing a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some diffi-
culty; and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and
an alphabet. All the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and
tables, hangings, glasses, even to he pincushions and scent-bottles on the
dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They agreed in noth-
ing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their
storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, ren-
dered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such,
with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows of
curtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, and warmth,
and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for
dinner; with the face of its generous master brightening everything we
saw; and just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to
everything we heard, were our first impressions of Bleak House.
“I am glad you like it,” said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought us
round again to Ada’s sitting-room. “It makes no pretensions, but it is
a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such
bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner.
There’s no one here but the finest creature upon earth—a child.”
“More children, Esther!” said Ada.
“I don’t mean literally a child,” pursued Mr. Jarndyce; “not a child in
years. He is grown up—he is at least as old as I am—but in simplicity,
and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly
affairs, he is a perfect child.”
We felt that he must be very interesting.

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Bleak House

“He knows Mrs. Jellyby,” said Mr. Jarndyce. “He is a musical man,
an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too,
an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a man of at-
tainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate in
his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his
family; but he don’t care—he’s a child!”
“Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?” inquired
Richard.
“Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think.
But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted some-
body to look after him. He is a child, you know!” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?”
inquired Richard.
“Why, just as you may suppose,” said Mr. Jarndyce, his counte-
nance suddenly falling. “It is said that the children of the very poor
are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole’s children
have tumbled up somehow or other. The wind’s getting round again,
I am afraid. I feel it rather!”
Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night.
“It is exposed,” said Mr. Jarndyce. “No doubt that’s the cause. Bleak
House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come
along!”
Our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, I was dressed in
a few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when
a maid (not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another, whom I
had not seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of
keys in it, all labelled.
“For you, miss, if you please,” said she.
“For me?” said I.
“The housekeeping keys, miss.”
I showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise on her
own part, “I was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss. Miss
Summerson, if I don’t deceive myself?”
“Yes,” said I. “That is my name.”
“The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the
cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint tomorrow morn-
ing, I was to show you the presses and things they belong to.”

76
 Dickens

I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone,
stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust.
Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in me when
I showed her the keys and told her about them that it would have
been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. I knew, to
be sure, that it was the dear girl’s kindness, but I liked to be so pleas-
antly cheated.
When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole,
who was standing before the fire telling Richard how fond he used to
be, in his school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature
with a rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and
there was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free from effort
and spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety that it
was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender figure than
Mr. Jarndyce and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he
looked younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance in all respects of
a damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an
easy negligence in his manner and even in his dress (his hair carelessly
disposed, and his neckkerchief loose and flowing, as I have seen artists
paint their own portraits) which I could not separate from the idea of
a romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of depre-
ciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance
of a man who had advanced in life by the usual road of years, cares, and
experiences.
I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been edu-
cated for the medical profession and had once lived, in his profes-
sional capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told us,
however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights
and measures and had never known anything about them (except
that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with
the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for
detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted
to bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally
found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making
fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn’t come. The prince, at last, ob-
jecting to this, “in which,” said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest man-
ner, “he was perfectly right,” the engagement terminated, and Mr.

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Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) “nothing to

live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself
with rosy cheeks.” His good friend Jarndyce and some other of his
good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to
several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to
two of the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he had no
idea of time, the other that he had no idea of money. In consequence
of which he never kept an
appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the
value of anything! Well! So he had got on in life, and here he was! He
was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy-
sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. All he
asked of society was to let him live. that wasn’t much. His wants
were few. Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee,
landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a
little claret, and he asked no more. He was a mere child in the world,
but he didn’t cry for the moon. He said to the world, “Go your
several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn sleeves; put
pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, com-
merce, trade, any object you prefer; only—let Harold Skimpole live!”
All this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the utmost
brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candour—speak-
ing of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if Skimpole were
a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had his singularities but
still had his claims too, which were the general business of the com-
munity and must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt at
all confused at that early time in endeavouring to reconcile anything he
said with anything I had thought about the duties and accountabilities
of life (which I am far from sure of ), I was confused by not exactly
understanding why he was free of them. That he was free of them, I
scarcely doubted; he was so very clear about it himself.
“I covet nothing,” said Mr. Skimpole in the same light way. “Posses-
sion is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce’s excellent house. I
feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can
sketch it and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have
sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsi-
bility. My steward’s name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can’t cheat me.

78
 Dickens

We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman,

of a strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws
herself into objects with surprising ardour! I don’t regret that I have not
a strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself
into objects with surprising ardour. I can admire her without envy. I
can sympathize with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down
on the grass—in fine weather—and float along an African river, em-
bracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketch-
ing the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I were
there. I don’t know that it’s of any direct use my doing so, but it’s all I
can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven’s sake, having Harold
Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglom-
eration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and ad-
mire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and
suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!”
It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful of
the adjuration. Mr. Skimpole’s general position there would have
rendered it so without the addition of what he presently said.
“It’s only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy,” said Mr.
Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. “I
envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should revel in
myself. I don’t feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if you
ought to be grateful to me for giving you the opportunity of enjoying
the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I can tell, I
may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing
your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to
you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my
little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details and
worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant consequences? I don’t
regret it therefore.”
Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what
they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndyce
than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether
it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was prob-
ably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should so
desire to escape the gratitude of others.
We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging

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qualities of Ada and Richard that Mr. Skimpole, seeing them for the
first time, should he so unreserved and should lay himself out to be
so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Richard) were naturally
pleased; for similar reasons, and considered it no common privilege
to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The more we
listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And what with his
fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his
genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had
said, “I am a child, you know! You are designing people compared
with me” (he really made me consider myself in that light) “but I am
gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!” the
effect was absolutely dazzling.
He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for
what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that
alone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Ada was
touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a
tune to her cousin Richard, which they had happened to mention, he
came and sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that I
almost loved him.
“She is like the morning,” he said. “With that golden hair, those
blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer
morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call such
a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an or-
phan. She is the child of the universe.”
Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us with his hands behind
him and an attentive smile upon his face.
“The universe,” he observed, “makes rather an indifferent parent, I
am afraid.”
“Oh! I don’t know!” cried Mr. Skimpole buoyantly.
“I think I do know,” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“Well!” cried Mr. Skimpole. “You know the world (which in your
sense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall have your
way. But if I had mine,” glancing at the cousins, “there should be no
brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn
with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring,
autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change should never
wither it. The base word money should never be breathed near it!”

80
 Dickens

Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had

been really a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping a
moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful,
but had a benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw
again, which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which
they were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only
lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside her,
bending down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, sur-
rounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught
from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects.
Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sigh-
ing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mys-
tery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the
present seemed expressed in the whole picture.
But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I recall the
scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast in respect of
meaning and intention between the silent look directed that way and
the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce’s
glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on me, I felt as if in
that moment he confided to me—and knew that he confided to me
and that I received the confidence—his hope that Ada and Richard
might one day enter on a dearer relationship.
Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he
was a composer—had composed half an opera once, but got tired of
it—and played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite
a little concert, in which Richard—who was enthralled by Ada’s sing-
ing and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were
written—and Mr. Jarndyce, and I were the audience. After a little
while I missed first Mr. Skimpole and afterwards Richard, and while
I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long and lose so
much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door,
saying, “If you please, miss, could you spare a minute?”
When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her
hands, “Oh, if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come
upstairs to Mr. Skimpole’s room. He has been took, miss!”
“Took?” said I.
“Took, miss. Sudden,” said the maid.

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I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind, but of

course I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and collected
myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to consider what
were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. She
threw open a door and I went into a chamber, where, to my unspeakable
surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the bed or
prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before the fire smiling at
Richard, while Richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a
person on the sofa, in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his
head and not much of it, which he was wiping smoother and making
less of with a pocket-handkerchief.
“Miss Summerson,” said Richard hurriedly, “I am glad you are
come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole—
don’t be alarmed!—is arrested for debt.”
“And really, my dear Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Skimpole with his
agreeable candour, “I never was in a situation in which that excellent
sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which anybody must
observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in
your society, was more needed.”
The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head,
gave such a very loud snort that he startled me.
“Are you arrested for much, sir?” I inquired of Mr. Skimpole.
“My dear Miss Summerson,” said he, shaking his head pleasantly,
“I don’t know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I think,
were mentioned.”
“It’s twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha’penny,”
observed the stranger. “That’s wot it is.”
“And it sounds—somehow it sounds,” said Mr. Skimpole, “like a
small sum?”
The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such
a powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.
“Mr. Skimpole,” said Richard to me, “has a delicacy in applying to
my cousin Jarndyce because he has lately—I think, sir, I understood
you that you had lately—”
“Oh, yes!” returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. “Though I forgot how
much it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again, but
I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help,

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 Dickens

that I would rather,” and he looked at Richard and me, “develop

generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower.”
“What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?” said Rich-
ard, aside.
I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would hap-
pen if the money were not produced.
“Jail,” said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into
his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. “Or Coavinses.”
“May I ask, sir, what is—”
“Coavinses?” said the strange man. “A ‘ouse.”
Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular
thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole’s.
He observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if I may
venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had entirely
washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.
“I thought,” he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out,
“that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a
large amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or
both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some
sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don’t know what the busi-
ness name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within
their power that would settle this?”
“Not a bit on it,” said the strange man.
“Really?” returned Mr. Skimpole. “That seems odd, now, to one
who is no judge of these things!”
“Odd or even,” said the stranger gruffly, “I tell you, not a bit on it!”
“Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!” Mr.
Skimpole gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his
head on the fly-leaf of a book. “Don’t be ruffled by your occupation.
We can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual
from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in
private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great
deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious.
The stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether in
acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it, he
did not express to me.
“Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard,” said

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Mr. Skimpole gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at his

drawing with his head on one side, “here you see me utterly inca-
pable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be
free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold
Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!”
“My dear Miss Summerson,” said Richard in a whisper, “I have ten
pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will do.”
I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from
my quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought
that some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly,
without any relation or any property, on the world and had always
tried to keep some little money by me that I might not be quite
penniless. I told Richard of my having this little store and having no
present need of it, and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole,
while I should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of
paying his debt.
When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed
quite touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that
perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as if per-
sonal considerations were impossible with him and the contempla-
tion of our happiness alone affected him. Richard, begging me, for
the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with
Coavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called him), I counted
out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. This,
too, delighted Mr. Skimpole.
His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed
less than I might have done and settled with the stranger in the white
coat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket
and shortly said, “Well, then, I’ll wish you a good evening, miss.
“My friend,” said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fire
after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, “I should like to
ask you something, without offence.”
I think the reply was, “Cut away, then!”
“Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on
this errand?” said Mr. Skimpole.
“Know’d it yes’day aft’noon at tea-time,” said Coavinses.
“It didn’t affect your appetite? Didn’t make you at all uneasy?”

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“Not a hit,” said Coavinses. “I know’d if you wos missed to-day,

you wouldn’t be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds.”
“But when you came down here,” proceeded Mr. Skimpole, “it
was a fine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights
and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing.”
“Nobody said they warn’t, in my hearing,” returned Coavinses.
“No,” observed Mr. Skimpole. “But what did you think upon
the road?”
“Wot do you mean?” growled Coavinses with an appearance of
strong resentment. “Think! I’ve got enough to do, and little enough
to get for it without thinking. Thinking!” (with profound contempt).
“Then you didn’t think, at all events,” proceeded Mr. Skimpole,
“to this effect: ‘Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to
hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows,
loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature’s great cathedral.
And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole
of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!’ You
thought nothing to that effect?”
“I—certainly—did—not,” said Coavinses, whose doggedness in
utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could
only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval be-
tween each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might
have dislocated his neck.
“Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of
business!” said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. “Thank you, my friend.
Good night.”
As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange down-
stairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the fireside
talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently appeared, and Ri-
chard shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged during the remain-
der of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from Mr.
Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game and from whom I wished of
course to learn it as quickly as I could in order that I might be of the
very small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary.
But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some frag-
ments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the
violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all effort

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his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that Richard
and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been ar-
rested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.
It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleven
o’clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that
the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours
from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took his candle and
his radiant face out of the room, and I think he might have kept us
there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada and Richard were linger-
ing for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs. Jellyby
had yet finished her dictation for the day, when Mr. Jarndyce, who
had been out of the room, returned.
“Oh, dear me, what’s this, what’s this!” he said, rubbing his head
and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. “What’s this
they tell me? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been
doing? Why did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece
was it? The wind’s round again. I feel it all over me!”
We neither of us quite knew what to answer.
“Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are
you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why did
you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it’s due east—must be!”
“Really, sir,” said Richard, “I don’t think it would be honourable in me
to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us—”
“Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!” said
Mr. Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub and stopping short.
“Indeed, sir?”
“Everybody! And he’ll be in the same scrape again next week!” said
Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his hand
that had gone out. “He’s always in the same scrape. He was born in the
same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in the newspapers
when his mother was confined was ‘On Tuesday last, at her residence
in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in difficulties.’”
Richard laughed heartily but added, “Still, sir, I don’t want to shake
his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to your
better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope you
will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if you do
press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you.”

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“Well!” cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several

absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. “I—here! Take
it away, my dear. I don’t know what I am about with it; it’s all the
wind—invariably has that effect—I won’t press you, Rick; you may
be right. But really—to get hold of you and Esther—and to squeeze
you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael’s oranges! It’ll blow
a gale in the course of the night!”
He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he
were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out
again and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.
I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole,
being in all such matters quite a child—
“Eh, my dear?” said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word.
Being quite a child, sir,” said I, “and so different from other
people—”
“You are right!” said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. “Your woman’s
wit hits the mark. He is a child—an absolute child. I told you he was
a child, you know, when I first mentioned him.”
Certainly! Certainly! we said.
“And he is a child. Now, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Jarndyce, brightening
more and more.
He was indeed, we said.
“When you come to think of it, it’s the height of childishness in
you—I mean me—” said Mr. Jarodyce, “to regard him for a mo-
ment as a man. You can’t make him responsible. The idea of Harold
Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha,
ha, ha!”
It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face
clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was
impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the good-
ness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly
accusing any one, that I saw the tears in Ada’s eyes, while she echoed
his laugh, and felt them in my own.
“Why, what a cod’s head and shoulders I am,” said Mr. Jarndyce,
“to require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from
beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of sin-
gling you two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child would

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have thought of your having the money! If it had been a thousand

pounds, it would have been just the same!” said Mr. Jarndyce with
his whole face in a glow.
We all confirmed it from our night’s experience.
“To be sure, to be sure!” said Mr. Jarndyce. “However, Rick, Esther,
and you too, Ada, for I don’t know that even your little purse is safe
from his inexperience—I must have a promise all round that noth-
ing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not even
sixpences.”
We all promised faithfully, Richard with a merry glance at me
touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of
our transgressing.
“As to Skimpole,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “a habitable doll’s house with
good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow
money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child’s sleep by this
time, I suppose; it’s time I should take my craftier head to my more
worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!”
He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our
candles, and said, “Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I
find it was a false alarm about the wind. It’s in the south!” And went
away singing to himself.
Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs,
that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that he used the
pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal,
rather than he would blame the real cause of it or disparage or depre-
ciate any one. We thought this very characteristic of his eccentric
gentleness and of the difference between him and those petulant people
who make the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind
which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalking-horses
of their splenetic and gloomy humours.
Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one
evening to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand
him through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in
Mr. Skimpole or in Mrs. Jellyby I could not expect to be able to
reconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge. Neither
did I try, for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, with Ada and
Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receive concerning

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them. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not
consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would have persuaded it
to be so if I could. It wandered back to my godmother’s house and
came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy speculations
which had sometimes trembled there in the dark as to what knowl-
edge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest history—even as to the possi-
bility of his being my father, though that idle dream was quite gone
now.
It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It was
not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit and
a grateful heart. So I said to myself, “Esther, Esther, Esther! Duty, my
dear!” and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a shake that
they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to bed.

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CHAPTER VII

The Ghost’s Walk

WHILE ESTHER SLEEPS, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weather
down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling—drip,
drip, drip—by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pave-
ment, the Ghost’s Walk. The weather is so very bad down in
Lincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its
ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant life of
imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, truly, even
if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in
Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding
upon Chesney Wold.
There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at
Chesney Wold. The horses in the stables—the long stables in a bar-
ren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a
clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it and who
love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always consulting—they
may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions,
and may be better artists at them than the grooms. The old roan, so
famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the grated
window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that glisten
there at other times and the scents that stream in, and may have a fine
run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next
stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The grey,
whose place is opposite the door and who with an impatient rattle of
his halter pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully when it is
opened, and to whom the opener says, “‘Woa grey, then, steady!
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Noabody wants you to-day!” may know it quite as well as the man.
The whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen,
stabled together, may pass the long wet hours when the door is shut
in livelier communication than is held in the servants’ hall or at the
Dedlock Arms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps
corrupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner.
So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his
large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when the
shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing and
leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than the shadow
of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short,
and very much wanting something to worry besides himself and his
chain. So now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house
full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables fall of
horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants upon horses, until he
is undecided about the present and comes forth to see how it is.
Then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl in the
spirit, “Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain—and no family here!” as
he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy yawn.
So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who
have their resfless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has
been very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself—
upstairs, downstairs, and in my Lady’s chamber. They may hunt the
whole country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round their
inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking in
and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of the
breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those seasons of
interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. The turkey in
the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably
Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrong-
fully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled
trees, where there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose,
who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may
gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather
when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground.
Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at
Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a

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little noise in that old echoing place, a long way and usually leads off
to ghosts and mystery.
It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire that
Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several
times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that
the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell might have
been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather
deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. She is a fine old lady,
handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back and such a
stomacher that if her stays should turn out when she dies to have
been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate,
nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. Weather
affects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in all weathers, and
the house, as she expresses it, “is what she looks at.” She sits in her
room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an arched window
commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with
smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees
were going to play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house
reposes on her mind. She can open it on occasion and be busy and
fluttered, but it is shut up now and lies on the breadth of Mrs.
Rouncewell’s iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep.
It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine
Chesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been here
fifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer
“fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven,
if I live till Tuesday.” Mr. Rouncewell died some time before the
decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own
(if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyard in the park near
the mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town, and so was his
young widow. Her progress in the family began in the time of the
last Sir Leicester and originated in the still-room.
The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master.
He supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual char-
acters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to
supersede the necessity of their having any. If he were to make a discov-
ery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned—would never recover
himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. But he is an excellent

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master still, holding it a part of his state to be so. He has a great liking
for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is a most respectable, creditable woman.
He always shakes hands with her when he comes down to Chesney
Wold and when he goes away; and if he were very ill, or if he were
knocked down by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation
expressive of a Dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could
speak, “Leave me, and send Mrs. Rouncewell here!” feeling his dignity,
at such a pass, safer with her than with anybody else.
Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sons, of
whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came
back. Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell’s calm hands lose their
composure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from
her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner as she says
what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever
lad he was! Her second son would have been provided for at Chesney
Wold and would have been made steward in due season, but he took,
when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of sauce-
pans and setting birds to draw their own water with the least possible
amount of labour, so assisting them with artful contrivance of hy-
draulic pressure that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put
his shoulder to the wheel and the job was done. This propensity gave
Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness. She felt it with a mother’s anguish
to be a move in the Wat Tyler direction, well knowing that Sir Le-
icester had that general impression of an aptitude for any art to which
smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential. But the
doomed young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering),
showing no sign of grace as he got older but, on the contrary, con-
structing a model of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to
mention his backslidings to the baronet. “Mrs. Rouncewell,” said Sir
Leicester, “I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one
on any subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had better get
him into some Works. The iron country farther north is, I suppose,
the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies.” Farther north
he went, and farther north he grew up; and if Sir Leicester Dedlock
ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or
ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded
him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy

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and grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torchlight two or
three nights in the week for unlawful purposes.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell’s son has, in the course of nature
and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called
unto him Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson, who, being out of his ap-
prenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he
was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for
the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this
very day in Mrs. Rouncewell’s room at Chesney Wold.
“And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, once again, I am
glad to see you, Watt!” says Mrs. Rouncewell. “You are a fine young fellow.
You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!” Mrs. Rouncewell’s hands un-
quiet, as usual, on this reference.
“They say I am like my father, grandmother.”
“Like him, also, my dear—but most like your poor uncle George!
And your dear father.” Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again. “He
is well?”
“Thriving, grandmother, in every way.”
“I am thankful!” Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a
plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable
soldier who had gone over to the enemy.
“He is quite happy?” says she.
“Quite.”
“I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways
and has sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knows
best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don’t un-
derstand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a quantity
of good company too!”
“Grandmother,” says the young man, changing the subject, “what
a very pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You called her
Rosa?”
“Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are so
hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young. She’s
an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the house already, very
pretty. She lives with me at my table here.”
“I hope I have not driven her away?”
“She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say.

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She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And scarcer,”

says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits,
“than it formerly was!”
The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the pre-
cepts of experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens.
“Wheels!” says she. They have long been audible to the younger
ears of her companion. “What wheels on such a day as this, for gra-
cious sake?”
After a short interval, a tap at the door. “Come in!” A dark-eyed,
dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in—so fresh in her rosy and
yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her
hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.
“What company is this, Rosa?” says Mrs. Rouncewell.
“It’s two young men in a gig, ma’am, who want to see the house—
yes, and if you please, I told them so!” in quick reply to a gesture of
dissent from the housekeeper. “I went to the hall-door and told them
it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who
was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this
card to you.”
“Read it, my dear Watt,” says the housekeeper.
Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them
and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. Rosa is
shyer than before.
“Mr. Guppy” is all the information the card yields.
“Guppy!” repeats Mrs. Rouncewell, “MR. Guppy! Nonsense, I
never heard of him!”
“If you please, he told me that!” says Rosa. “But he said that he and
the other young gentleman came from London only last night by
the mail, on business at the magistrates’ meeting, ten miles off, this
morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard
a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn’t know what to do
with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. They are
lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s office, but he is sure
he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s name if necessary.” Finding,
now she leaves off, that she has been making
quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.
Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place,

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and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell’s will. The

old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour,
and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being smitten by a sud-
den wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The
grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, ac-
companies him—though to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwill-
ing to trouble her.
“Much obliged to you, ma’am!” says Mr. Guppy, divesting him-
self of his wet dreadnought in the hall. “Us London lawyers don’t
often get an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it,
you know.”
The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves
her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friend follow
Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young gar-
dener goes before to open the shutters.
As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppy
and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They straggle
about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don’t care for the right
things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depres-
sion of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In each successive chamber
that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself,
rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens with stately
approval to Rosa’s exposition. Her grandson is so attentive to it that
Rosa is shyer than ever—and prettier. Thus they pass on from room to
room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the
young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves
as he shuts it out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his
inconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family
greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to dis-
tinguish themselves for seven hundred years.
Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr.
Guppy’s spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold and has
hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney-
piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like
a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon
interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.
“Dear me!” says Mr. Guppy. “Who’s that?”

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“The picture over the fire-place,” says Rosa, “is the portrait of the
present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best
work of the master.”
“‘Blest,” says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend,
“if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the picture been
engraved, miss?”
“The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always re-
fused permission.”
“Well!” says Mr. Guppy in a low voice. “I’ll be shot if it ain’t very
curious how well I know that picture! So that’s Lady Dedlock, is it!”
“The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. The
picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester.”
Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. “It’s
unaccountable to me,” he says, still staring at the portrait, “how well
I know that picture! I’m dashed,” adds Mr. Guppy, looking round,
“if I don’t think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!”
As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy’s
dreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so ab-
sorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the
young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the
room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for
interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare,
as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again.
He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last shown,
as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she
looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death.
All things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains to
see and are tired of before they begin to see them. He has come to the
end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her descrip-
tion; which is always this: “The terrace below is much admired. It is
called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost’s Walk.”
“No?” says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious. “What’s the story, miss?
Is it anything about a picture?”
“Pray tell us the story,” says Watt in a half whisper.
“I don’t know it, sir.” Rosa is shyer than ever.
“It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten,” says the house-
keeper, advancing. “It has never been more than a family anecdote.”

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“You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a pic-

ture, ma’am,” observes Mr. Guppy, “because I do assure you that the
more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing
how I know it!”
The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can
guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the information and
is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend, guided
down another staircase by the young gardener, and presently is heard
to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rouncewell can trust to the dis-
cretion of her two young hearers and may tell them how the terrace
came to have that ghostly name.
She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window
and tells them: “In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the
First—I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who
leagued themselves against that excellent king—Sir Morbury
Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any
account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can’t say. I
should think it very likely indeed.”
Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that a
family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She
regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes, a genteel
distinction to which the common people have no claim.
“Sir Morbury Dedlock,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, “was, I have no oc-
casion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it is supposed that
his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the
bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles’s en-
emies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave
them information. When any of the country gentlemen who followed
his Majesty’s cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer
to the door of their council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a
sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt?”
Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper.
“I hear the rain-drip on the stones,” replies the young man, “and I hear
a curious echo—I suppose an echo—which is very like a halting step.”
The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: “Partly on account of
this division between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury
and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of a haughty temper.

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They were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they had
no children to moderate between them. After her favourite brother, a
young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury’s near
kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which
she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney
Wold in the king’s cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen
down into the stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and
the story is that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down
the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse
stood. There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or
through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the
hip and from that hour began to pine away.”
The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a
whisper.
“She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. She
never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being
crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon the
terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down,
up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty
every day. At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had never,
on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the
great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. He hastened
down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and look-
ing at him fixedly and coldly, said, ‘I will die here where I have walked.
And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I will walk here until
the pride of this house is humbled. And when calamity or when dis-
grace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step!’
Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down
upon the ground, half frightened and half shy.
“There and then she died. And from those days,” says Mrs.
Rouncewell, “the name has come down—the Ghost’s Walk. If the
tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often
unheard for a long while together. But it comes back from time to
time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be
heard then.”
“And disgrace, grandmother—” says Watt.
“Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold,” returns the housekeeper.

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Her grandson apologizes with “True. True.”

“That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying
sound,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; “and what
is to be noticed in it is that it must be heard. My Lady, who is afraid
of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You can-
not shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed
there, ‘a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can
play music. You understand how those things are managed?”
“Pretty well, grandmother, I think.”
“Set it a-going.”
Watt sets it a-going—music and all.
“Now, come hither,” says the housekeeper. “Hither, child, towards
my Lady’s pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen!
Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the
beat, and everything?”
“I certainly can!”
“So my Lady says.”

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CHAPTER VIII

Covering a Multitude of Sins

IT WAS INTERESTING WHEN I dressed before daylight to peep out of

window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like two
beacons, and finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness
of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day came on. As
the prospect gradually revealed itself and disclosed the scene over
which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory over my
life, I had a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects that had
been around me in my sleep. At first they were faintly discernible in
the mist, and above them the later stars still glimmered. That pale
interval over, the picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast that at
every new peep I could have found enough to look at for an hour.
Imperceptibly my candles became the only incongruous part of the
morning, the dark places in my room all melted away, and the day
shone bright upon a cheerful landscape, prominent in which the old
Abbey Church, with its massive tower, threw a softer train of shadow
on the view than seemed compatible with its rugged character. But
so from rough outsides (I hope I have learnt), serene and gentle influ-
ences often proceed.
Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so
attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys,
though what with trying to remember the contents of each little store-
room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate
about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and china,
and a great many other things; and what with being generally a me-

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thodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person, I was so busy that I

could not believe it was breakfast-time when I heard the bell ring.
Away I ran, however, and made tea, as I had already been installed into
the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they were all rather late
and nobody was down yet, I thought I would take a peep at the garden
and get some knowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightful
place—in front, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached
(and where, by the by, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with our
wheels that I asked the gardener to roll it); at the back, the flower-
garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing it open to
smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from that distance.
Beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden, and then a paddock,
and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear little
farm-yard. As to the house itself, with its three peaks in the
roof; its various-shaped windows, some so large, some so small, and
all so pretty; its trellis-work, against the southfront for roses and
honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look—it was,
as Ada said when she came out to meet me with her arm through
that of its master, worthy of her cousin John, a bold thing to say,
though he only pinched her dear cheek for it.
Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast as he had been
overnight. There was honey on the table, and it led him into a dis-
course about bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and I
should think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested
against the overweening assumptions of bees. He didn’t at all see why
the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the
bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn’t do it—nobody asked him.
It was not necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. If
every confectioner went buzzing about the world banging against
everything that came in his way and egotistically calling upon every-
body to take notice that he was going to his work and must not be
interrupted, the world would be quite an unsupportable place. Then,
after all, it was a ridiculous position to be smoked out of your for-
tune with brimstone as soon as you had made it. You would have a
very mean opinion of a Manchester man if he spun cotton for no
other purpose. He must say he thought a drone the embodiment of
a pleasanter and wiser idea. The drone said unaffectedly, “You will

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excuse me; I really cannot attend to the shop! I find myself in a world
in which there is so much to see and so short a time to see it in that
I must take the liberty of looking about me and begging to be pro-
vided for by somebody who doesn’t want to look about him.” This
appeared to Mr. Skimpole to be the drone philosophy, and he thought
it a very good philosophy, always supposing the drone to be willing
to be on good terms with the bee, which, so far as he knew, the easy
fellow always was, if the consequential creature would only let him,
and not be so conceited about his honey!
He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground
and made us all merry, though again he seemed to have as serious a
meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I left them still
listening to him when I withdrew to attend to my new duties. They
had occupied me for some time, and I was passing through the pas-
sages on my return with my basket of keys on my arm when Mr.
Jarndyce called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which I
found to be in part a little library of books and papers and in part
quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hat-boxes.
“Sit down, my dear,” said Mr. Jarndyce. “This, you must know, is
the growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here.”
“You must be here very seldom, sir,” said I.
“Oh, you don’t know me!” he returned. “When I am deceived or
disappointed in—the wind, and it’s easterly, I take refuge here. The
growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not aware of
half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling!”
I could not help it; I tried very hard, but being alone with that
benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy
and so honoured there, and my heart so full—
I kissed his hand. I don’t know what I said, or even that I spoke.
He was disconcerted and walked to the window; I almost believed
with an intention of jumping out, until he turned and I was reas-
sured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. He gently
patted me on the head, and I sat down.
“There! There!” he said. “That’s over. Pooh! Don’t be foolish.”
“It shall not happen again, sir,” I returned, “but at first it is
difficult—”
“Nonsense!” he said. “It’s easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good

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little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to be

that protector. She grows up, and more than justifies my good opin-
ion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in all
this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old scores, and I have before
me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again.”
I said to myself, “Esther, my dear, you surprise me! This really is
not what I expected of you!” And it had such a good effect that I
folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.
Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as
confidentially as if I had been in the habit of conversing with him
every morning for I don’t know how long. I almost felt as if I had.
“Of course, Esther,” he said, “you don’t understand this Chancery
business?”
And of course I shook my head.
“I don’t know who does,” he returned. “The lawyers have twisted
it into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case
have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It’s about a will and
the trusts under a will—or it was once. It’s about nothing but costs
now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing, and
interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing,
and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about
the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing our-
selves off to dusty death, about costs. That’s the great question. All
the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away.”
“But it was, sir,” said I, to bring him back, for he began to rub his
head, “about a will?”
“Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything,” he
returned. “A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune,
and made a great will. In the question how the trusts under that will
are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered
away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable
condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had com-
mitted an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will
itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable cause, every-
thing that everybody in it, except one man, knows already is referred
to that only one man who don’t know it to
find out—all through the deplorable cause, everybody must have cop-

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ies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in
the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having
them, which is the usual course, for nobody wants them) and must go
down the middle and up again through such an infernal country-dance
of costs and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of
in the wildest visions of a witch’s Sabbath. Equity sends questions to
law, law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can’t do this, eq-
uity finds it can’t do that; neither can so much as say it can’t do any-
thing, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for
A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B; and
so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the apple pie.
And thus, through years and years, and lives and lives, everything goes
on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing ever ends.
And we can’t get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties
to it, and must be parties to it, whether we like it or not. But it won’t
do to think of it! When my great uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began to
think of it, it was the beginning of the end!”
“The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?”
He nodded gravely. “I was his heir, and this was his house,
Esther. When I came here, it was bleak indeed. He had left the signs
of his misery upon it.”
“How changed it must be now!” I said.
“It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its present
name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the wicked
heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to disentangle it
from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the meantime, the
place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked
walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the
passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him
home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the
house too, it was so shattered and ruined.”
He walked a little to and fro after saying this to himself with a
shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat
down again with his hands in his pockets.
“I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I?”
I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.
“Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, some

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property of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House was
then; I say property of ours, meaning of the suit’s, but I ought to call
it the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth that will
ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for anything but
an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind houses,
with their eyes stoned out, without a pane of glass, without so much
as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their
hinges and falling asunder, the iron rails peeling away in flakes of
rust, the chimneys sinking in, the stone steps to every door (and
every door might be death’s door) turning stagnant green, the very
crutches on which the ruins are propped decaying. Although Bleak
House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with
the same seal. These are the Great Seal’s impressions, my dear, all
over England—the children know them!”
“How changed it is!” I said again.
“Why, so it is,” he answered much more cheerfully; “and it is wis-
dom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture.” (The idea
of my wisdom!) “These are things I never talk about or even think
about, excepting in the growlery here. If you consider it right to
mention them to Rick and Ada,” looking seriously at me, “you can.
I leave it to your discretion, Esther.”
“I hope, sir—” said I.
“I think you had better call me guardian, my dear.”
I felt that I was choking again—I taxed myself with it, “Esther,
now, you know you are!”—when he feigned to say this slightly, as if
it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave the
housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to my-
self, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the
basket, looked at him quietly.
“I hope, guardian,” said I, “that you may not trust too much to
my discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be
a disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it really is
the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not the honesty to
confess it.”
He did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. He told
me, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed
and that I was quite clever enough for him.

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“I hope I may turn out so,” said I, “but I am much afraid of it,
guardian.”
“You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives
here, my dear,” he returned playfully; “the little old woman of the
child’s (I don’t mean Skimpole’s) rhyme:

‘Little old woman, and whither so high?’

‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.’

You will sweep them so neatly out of our sky in the course of your
housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days we shall have to aban-
don the growlery and nail up the door.”
This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little
Old Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard,
and Dame Durden, and so many names of that sort that my own
name soon became quite lost among them.
“However,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “to return to our gossip. Here’s Rick,
a fine young fellow full of promise. What’s to be done with him?”
Oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!
“Here he is, Esther,” said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting his
hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. “He must have a
profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be a
world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done.”
“More what, guardian?” said I.
“More wiglomeration,” said he. “It’s the only name I know for the
thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have
something to say about it; Master Somebody—a sort of ridiculous
sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the
end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane—will have something to say
about it; counsel will have something to say about it; the Chancellor
will have something to say about it; the satellites will have something
to say about it; they will all have to be handsomely feed, all round,
about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatis-
factory, and expensive, and I call it, in general, wiglomeration. How
mankind ever came to be afflicted with wiglomeration, or for whose
sins these young people ever fell into a pit of it, I don’t know; so it is.”
He began to rub his head again and to hint that he felt the wind.

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But it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me that

whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face
was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and
he was sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in his pock-
ets and stretch out his legs.
“Perhaps it would be best, first of all,” said I, “to ask Mr.
Richard what he inclines to himself.”
“Exactly so,” he returned. “That’s what I mean! You know, just
accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet
way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We are sure
to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman.”
I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was
attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me.
I had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to
Richard. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I would do
my best, though I feared (I realty felt it necessary to repeat this) that
he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which my guardian
only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.
“Come!” he said, rising and pushing back his chair. “I think we
may have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concluding
word. Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?”
He looked so attentively at me that I looked attentively at him
and felt sure I understood him.
“About myself, sir?” said I.
“Yes.”
“Guardian,” said I, venturing to put my hand, which was sud-
denly colder than I could have wished, in his, “nothing! I am quite
sure that if there were anything I ought to know or had any need to
know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole
reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard
heart indeed. I have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world.”
He drew my hand through his arm and we went away to look for
Ada. From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved,
quite content to know no more, quite happy.
We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House, for we had to
become acquainted with many residents in and out of the
neighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me

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that everybody knew him who wanted to do anything with anybody

else’s money. It amazed us when we began to sort his letters and to
answer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning to find
how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents ap-
peared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in and
laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; in-
deed, I think they were even more so. They threw themselves into
committees in the most impassioned manner and collected subscrip-
tions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It appeared to us that some
of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards
to the whole post-office directory—shilling cards, half-crown cards,
half-sovereign cards, penny cards. They wanted everything. They wanted
wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they
wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted
autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce
had—or had not. Their objects were as various as their demands. They
were going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on
old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building
(engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the Sisterhood of Me-
diaeval Marys, they were going to give a testimonial to Mrs. Jellyby,
they were going to have their secretary’s portrait painted and presented
to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him was well known,
they were going to get up everything, I really believe, from five hun-
dred thousand tracts to an annuity and from a marble monument to a
silver tea-pot. They took a multitude of titles. They were the Women
of England, the Daughters of Britain, the Sisters of all the cardinal
virtues separately, the Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred
denominations. They appeared to be always excited about canvassing
and electing. They seemed to our poor wits, and according to their
own accounts, to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands,
yet never bringing their candidates in for anything. It made our heads
ache to think, on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead.
Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious
benevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Pardiggle, who
seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Jarndyce,
to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby herself. We
observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Pardiggle became

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the subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr.

Jarndyce and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked
that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who
did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, the people who
did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore curious
to see Mrs. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be a type of the former class,
and were glad when she called one day with her five young sons.
She was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominent
nose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of
room. And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her
skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at
home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come in like cold
weather and to make the little Pardiggles blue as they followed.
“These, young ladies,” said Mrs. Pardiggle with great volubility
after the first salutations, “are my five boys. You may have seen their
names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in the
possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my eldest
(twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount
of five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my sec-
ond (ten and a half ), is the child who contributed two and nine-
pence to the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, my third
(nine), one and sixpence halfpenny; Felix, my fourth (seven),
eightpence to the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five),
has voluntarily enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is
pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form.”
We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely
that they were weazened and shrivelled—though they were certainly
that to—but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At
the mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have sup-
posed Eghert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he
gave me such a savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount
of his contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindic-
tive manner, but his was by far the worst. I must except, however,
the little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and
evenly miserable.
“You have been visiting, I understand,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, “at
Mrs. Jellyby’s?”

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We said yes, we had passed one night there.

“Mrs. Jellyby,” pursued the lady, always speaking in the same de-
monstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy
as if it had a sort of spectacles on too—and I may take the opportu-
nity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging by
her eyes being what Ada called “choking eyes,” meaning very promi-
nent—”Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society and deserves a helping
hand. My boys have contributed to the African project—Egbert,
one and six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; Oswald, one
and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest, according to their
little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in all things.
I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treatment of her young family.
It has been noticed. It has been observed that her young family are
excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted.
She may be right, she may be wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not
my course with my young family. I take them everywhere.”
I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the ill-
conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He turned
it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell.
“They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six
o’clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the
depth of winter,” said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidly, “and they are with me
during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am a
Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady; I am on
the local Linen Box Committee and many general committees; and
my canvassing alone is very extensive—perhaps no one’s more so.
But they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they
acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing
charitable business in general—in short, that taste for the sort of
thing—which will render them in after life a service to their
neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are
not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in
subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many
public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and dis-
cussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred
(five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined the
Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children who mani-

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fested consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of two

hours from the chairman of the evening.”
Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the
injury of that night.
“You may have observed, Miss Summerson,” said Mrs. Pardiggle,
“in some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our
esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family are
concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound. That
is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put down my
mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according
to their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Pardiggle brings up
the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, un-
der my direction; and thus things are made not only pleasant to our-
selves, but, we trust, improving to others.”
Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and suppose
Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Pardiggle,
would Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communica-
tion to Mr. Jellyby? I was quite confused to find myself thinking
this, but it came into my head.
“You are very pleasantly situated here!” said Mrs. Pardiggle.
We were glad to change the subject, and going to the window,
pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles
appeared to me to rest with curious indifference.
“You know Mr. Gusher?” said our visitor.
We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher’s
acquaintance.
“The loss is yours, I assure you,” said Mrs. Pardiggle with her com-
manding deportment. “He is a very fervid, impassioned speaker-full
of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now, which, from the
shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would
improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours!
By this time, young ladies,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, moving back to her
chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency, a little round table at
a considerable distance with my work-basket on it, “by this time you
have found me out, I dare say?”
This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me
in perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness

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after what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the
colour of my cheeks.
“Found out, I mean,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, “the prominent point
in my character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discover-
able immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well! I
freely admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; I enjoy
hard work. The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and
inured to hard work that I don’t know what fatigue is.”
We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying, or
something to that effect. I don’t think we knew what it was either,
but this is what our politeness expressed.
“I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if
you try!” said Mrs. Pardiggle. “The quantity of exertion (which is no
exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing),
that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young
family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I
may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark!”
If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he
had already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed that he
doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into the crown of his
cap, which was under his left arm.
“This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds,”
said Mrs. Pardiggle. “If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have
to say, I tell that person directly, ‘I am incapable of fatigue, my good
friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.’ It
answers admirably! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall have your assis-
tance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare’s very soon.”
At first I tried to excuse myself for the present on the general ground
of having occupations to attend to which I must not neglect. But as
this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more particularly, that I was
not sure of my qualifications. That I was inexperienced in the art of
adapting my mind to minds very differently situated, and addressing
them from suitable points of view. That I had not that delicate knowl-
edge of the heart which must be essential to such a work. That I had
much to learn, myself, before I could teach others, and that I could not
confide in my good intentions alone. For these reasons I thought it
best to be as useful as I could, and to render what kind services I could

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to those immediately about me, and to try to let that circle of duty
gradually and naturally expand itself. All this I said with anything but
confidence, because Mrs. Pardiggle was much older than I, and had
great experience, and was so very military in her manners.
“You are wrong, Miss Summerson,” said she, “but perhaps you are
not equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast
difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I am
now about—with my young family—to visit a brickmaker in the
neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you
with me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour.”
Ada and I interchanged looks, and as we were going out in any
case, accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on
our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and
Mrs. Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all
the light objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada,
and I followed with the family.
Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same
loud tone (that, indeed, I overheard) all the way to the brickmaker’s
about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged
against another lady relative to the bringing in of their rival candi-
dates for a pension somewhere. There had been a quantity of print-
ing, and promising, and proxying, and polling, and it appeared to
have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the pension-
ers—who were not elected yet.
I am very fond of being confided in by children and am happy in
being usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it gave
me great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, with
the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me on the ground
that his pocket-money was “boned” from him. On my pointing out
the great impropriety of the word, especially in connexion with his
parent (for he added sulkily “By her!”), he pinched me and said, “Oh,
then! Now! Who are you! You wouldn’t like it, I think? What does she
make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away
again? Why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?”
These exasperating questions so inflamed his mind and the minds of
Oswald and Francis that they all pinched me at once, and in a dread-
fully expert way—screwing up such little pieces of my arms that I

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could hardly forbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped upon
my toes. And the Bond of Joy, who on account of always having the
whole of his little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to abstain
from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we
passed a pastry-cook’s shop that he terrified me by becoming purple. I
never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a
walk with young people as from these unnaturally constrained chil-
dren when they paid me the compliment of being natural.
I was glad when we came to the brickmaker’s house, though it was
one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pigsties close
to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before the doors
growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there an old tub was
put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were
banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the
doors and windows some men and women lounged or prowled
about, and took little notice of us except to laugh to one another or
to say something as we passed about gentlefolks minding their own
business and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes
with coming to look after other people’s.
Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral
determination and talking with much volubility about the untidy
habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have
been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest
corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled. Besides
ourselves, there were in this damp, offensive room a woman with a
black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, all
stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated, lying at full
length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man fas-
tening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing some kind of washing
in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as we came in, and the
woman seemed to turn her face towards the fire as if to hide her
bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome.
“Well, my friends,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, but her voice had not a
friendly sound, I thought; it was much too businesslike and system-
atic. “How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you, you
couldn’t tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to
my word.”

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“There an’t,” growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on
his hand as he stared at us, “any more on you to come in, is there?”
“No, my friend,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool
and knocking down another. “We are all here.”
“Because I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?” said the
man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.
The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the
young man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood
there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.
“You can’t tire me, good people,” said Mrs. Pardiggle to these lat-
ter. “I enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, the better I
like it.”
“Then make it easy for her!” growled the man upon the floor. “I
wants it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my
place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now you’re a-
going to poll-pry and question according to custom—I know what
you’re a-going to be up to. Well! You haven’t got no occasion to be
up to it. I’ll save you the trouble. Is my daughter a-washin? Yes, she is
a-washin. Look at the water. Smell it! That’s wot we drinks. How do
you like it, and what do you think of gin instead! An’t my place
dirty? Yes, it is dirty—it’s nat’rally dirty, and it’s nat’rally onwholesome;
and we’ve had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead
infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. Have I
read the little book wot you left? No, I an’t read the little book wot
you left. There an’t nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there
wos, it wouldn’t be suitable to me. It’s a book fit for a babby, and
I’m not a babby. If you was to leave me a doll, I shouldn’t nuss it.
How have I been conducting of myself? Why, I’ve been drunk for
three days; and I’da been drunk four if I’da had the money. Don’t I
never mean for to go to church? No, I don’t never mean for to go to
church. I shouldn’t be expected there, if I did; the beadle’s too gen-
teel for me. And how did my wife get that black eye? Why, I give it
her; and if she says I didn’t, she’s a lie!”
He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he
now turned over on his other side and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle,
who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible
composure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to increase his an-

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tagonism, pulled out a good book as if it were a constable’s staff and

took the whole family into custody. I mean into religious custody,
of course; but she really did it as if she were an inexorable moral
policeman carrying them all off to a station-house.
Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and
out of place, and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have
got on infinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way of
taking possession of people. The children sulked and stared; the
family took no notice of us whatever, except when the young man
made the dog bark, which he usually did when Mrs. Pardiggle was
most emphatic. We both felt painfully sensible that between us
and these people there was an iron barrier which could not be re-
moved by our new friend. By whom or how it could be removed,
we did not know, but we knew that. Even what she read and said
seemed to us to be ill-chosen for such auditors, if it had been im-
parted ever so modestly and with ever so much tact. As to the little
book to which the man on the floor had referred, we acqulred a
knowledge of it afterwards, and Mr. Jarndyce said he doubted if
Robinson Crusoe could have read it, though he had had no other
on his desolate island.
We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs.
Pardiggle left off.
The man on the floor, then turning his bead round again, said
morosely, “Well! You’ve done, have you?”
“For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall
come to you again in your regular order,” returned Mrs. Pardiggle
with demonstrative cheerfulness.
“So long as you goes now,” said he, folding his arms and shutting
his eyes with an oath, “you may do wot you like!”
Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the con-
fined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. Taking
one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others to follow
closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and all his house
would be improved when she saw them next, she then proceeded to
another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say that she certainly did
make, in this as in everything else, a show that was not conciliatory of
doing charity by wholesale and of dealing in it to a large extent.

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She supposed that we were following her, but as soon as the space
was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire to ask if
the baby were ill.
She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before that
when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her hand, as
though she wished to separate any association with noise and violence and ill
treatment from the poor little child.
Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down
to touch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drew
her back. The child died.
“Oh, Esther!” cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. “Look
here! Oh, Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet, pretty
little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother. I never
saw a sight so pitiful as this before! Oh, baby, baby!”
Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent
down weeping and put her hand upon the mother’s might have soft-
ened any mother’s heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at
her in astonishment and then burst into tears.
Presently I took the light burden from her lap, did what I could to
make the baby’s rest the prettier and gentler, laid it on a shelf, and
covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the
mother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children.
She answered nothing, but sat weeping—weeping very much.
When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the dog
and was standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyes, but
quiet. The girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on the ground.
The man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance,
but he was silent.
An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glanc-
ing at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, “Jenny!
Jenny!” The mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon the
woman’s neck.
She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. She
had no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when
she condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no
beauty. I say condoled, but her only words were “Jenny! Jenny!” All
the rest was in the tone in which she said them.

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I thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and

shabby and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one an-
other; to see how they felt for one another, how the heart of each to
each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think the best side
of such people is almost hidden from us. What the poor are to the
poor is little known, excepting to themselves and God.
We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. We
stole out quietly and without notice from any one except the man.
He was leaning against the wall near the door, and finding that there
was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. He seemed to
want to hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that
be did, and thanked him. He made no answer.
Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Richard, whom we
found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to
me, when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!), that we
arranged to return at night with some little comforts and repeat our
visit at the brick-maker’s house. We said as little as we could to Mr.
Jarndyce, but the wind changed directly.
Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning ex-
pedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house,
where a number of men were flocking about the door. Among them,
and prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. At
a short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial
company. The sister was standing laughing and talking with some
other young women at the corner of the row of cottages, but she
seemed ashamed and turned away as we went by.
We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker’s dwelling and
proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found the
woman who had brought such consolation with her standing there
looking anxiously out.
“It’s you, young ladies, is it?” she said in a whisper. “I’m a-
watching for my master. My heart’s in my mouth. If he was to catch
me away from home, he’d pretty near murder me.”
“Do you mean your husband?” said I.
“Yes, miss, my master. Jennys asleep, quite worn out. She’s
scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and
nights, except when I’ve been able to take it for a minute or two.”

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As she gave way for us, she went softly in and put what we had brought
near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No effort had been
made to clean the room—it seemed in its nature almost hopeless of
being clean; but the small waxen form from which so much solemnity
diffused itself had been composed afresh, and washed, and neatly dressed
in some fragments of white linen; and on my handkerchief, which still
covered the poor baby, a little bunch of sweet herbs had been laid by the
same rough, scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly!
“May heaven reward you!” we said to her. “You are a good woman.”
“Me, young ladies?” she returned with surprise. “Hush! Jenny,
Jenny!”
The mother had moaned in her sleep and moved. The sound of
the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.
How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon
the tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around the
child through Ada’s drooping hair as her pity bent her head—how
little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would
come to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! I only
thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all uncon-
scious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand;
not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave, and
left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for her-
self, and saying in her old soothing manner, “Jenny, Jenny!”

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CHAPTER IX

Signs and Tokens

I DON’T KNOW HOW IT IS I seem to be always writing about myself. I

mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think
about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself
coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, “Dear, dear,
you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn’t!” but it is all of no
use. I hope any one who may read what I write will understand that
if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it
must be because I have really something to do with them and can’t
be kept out.
My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and
found so much employment for our time that the winter days flew
by us like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and al-
ways in the evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although he was
one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very
fond of our society.
He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say it
at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before, but I
found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of course, or show that I
knew anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demure and used to
seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within myself while I
was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite deceitful.
But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and
I was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so far as
any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they

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relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one
another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing
how it interested me.
“Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman,” Richard would
say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and
perhaps the least tinge of a blush, “that I can’t get on without her. Before I
begin my harum-scarum day—grinding away at those books and instru-
ments and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round,
like a highwayman—it does me so much good to come and have a steady
walk with our comfortable friend, that here I am again!”
“You know, Dame Durden, dear,” Ada would say at night, with
her head upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thought-
ful eyes, “I don’t want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to
sit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to
hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea—”
Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over
very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination
of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had written to a relation of
the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in Richard’s
favour, generally; and Sir Leicester had replied in a gracious manner
that he would be happy to advance the prospects of the young gentle-
man if it should ever prove to be within his power, which was not at
all probable, and that my Lady sent her compliments to the young
gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied
by remote consanguinity) and trusted that he would ever do his duty
in any honourable profession to which he might devote himself.
“So I apprehend it’s pretty clear,” said Richard to me, “that I shall
have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had
to do that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the com-
mand of a clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the
Chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment
in our cause. He’d find himself growing thin, if he didn’t look sharp!”
With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever flagged,
Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite perplexed me, princi-
pally because he mistook it, in such a very odd way, for prudence. It en-
tered into all his calculations about money in a singular manner which I
don’t think I can better explain than by reverting for a moment to our loan
to Mr. Skimpole.
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 Dickens

Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr.

Skimpole himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in
my hands with instructions to me to retain my own part of it and
hand the rest to Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtless
expenditure which Richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds,
and the number of times he talked to me as if he had saved or real-
ized that amount, would form a sum in simple addition.
“My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?” he said to me when he
wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the
brickmaker. “I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses’ business.”
“How was that?” said I.
“Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid
of and never expected to see any more. You don’t deny that?”
“No,” said I.
“Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds—”
“The same ten pounds,” I hinted.
“That has nothing to do with it!” returned Richard. “I have got
ten pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can
afford to spend it without being particular.”
In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacri-
fice of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no
good, he carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it.
“Let me see!” he would say. “I saved five pounds out of the
brickmaker’s affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and back in
a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved
one. And it’s a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny
saved is a penny got!”
I believe Richard’s was as frank and generous a nature as there pos-
sibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and in the midst of all his wild
restlessness, was so gentle that I knew him like a brother in a few
weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would have shown
itself abundantly even without Ada’s influence; but with it, he be-
came one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be
interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. I am
sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking
with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on,
falling deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each

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shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet
suspected even by the other—I am sure that I was scarcely less en-
chanted than they were and scarcely less pleased with the pretty dream.
We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast Mr.
Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription, said,
“From Boythorn? Aye, aye!” and opened and read it with evident
pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he was about half-
way through, that Boythorn was “coming down” on a visit. Now
who was Boythorn, we all thought. And I dare say we all thought
too—I am sure I did, for one—would Boythorn at all interfere with
what was going forward?
“I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn,” said Mr.
Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, “more than five
and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the
world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the
loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was
then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the
heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow.”
“In stature, sir?” asked Richard.
“Pretty well, Rick, in that respect,” said Mr. Jarndyce; “being some
ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with his head thrown
back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his hands like a clean
blacksmith’s, and his lungs! There’s no simile for his lungs. Talking,
laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake.”
As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, we
observed the favourable omen that there was not the least indication
of any change in the wind.
“But it’s the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick—and Ada, and
little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor—that I speak
of,” he pursued. “His language is as sounding as his voice. He is
always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. In his con-
demnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an ogre
from what he says, and I believe he has the reputation of one with
some people. There! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You
must not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for
he has never forgotten that I was a low boy at

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school and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my

head tyrant’s teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and
his man,” to me, “will be here this afternoon, my dear.”
I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.
Boythorn’s reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some
curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear.
The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. The dinner was
put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light
but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open and the hall
resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence
and in a stentorian tone: “We have been misdirected,
Jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turn-
ing to the right instead of to the left. He is the most
intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His father must have
been a most consummate villain, ever to have such a son. I would
have had that fellow shot without the least remorse!”
“Did he do it on purpose?” Mr. Jarndyce inquired.
“I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his
whole existence in misdirecting travellers!” returned the other. “By
my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld
when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I
stood before that fellow face to face and didn’t knock his brains out!”
“Teeth, you mean?” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making the
whole house vibrate. “What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha, ha,
ha! And that was another most consummate vagabond! By my soul,
the countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest
image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in
a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot
in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him like a rotten tree!”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Jarndyce. “Now, will you come
upstairs?”
“By my soul, Jarndyce,” returned his guest, who seemed to refer
to his watch, “if you had been married, I would have turned back at
the garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the
Himalaya Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at
this unseasonable hour.”

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“Not quite so far, I hope?” said Mr. Jarndyce.

“By my life and honour, yes!” cried the visitor. “I wouldn’t be
guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house wait-
ing all this time for any earthly consideration. I would infinitely rather
destroy myself—infinitely rather!”
Talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in his
bedroom thundering “Ha, ha, ha!” and again “Ha, ha, ha!” until the
flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion and
to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him laugh.
We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a ster-
ling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice, and in
the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he spoke,
and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go off like
blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly prepared to
have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr. Jarndyce presented
him. He was not only a very handsome old gentleman—upright and
stalwart as he had been described to us—with a massive grey head, a
fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become
corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it
no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but
for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to
assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so chival-
rously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness
and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide,
but showed himself exactly as he was—incapable, as Richard said, of
anything on a limited scale, and firing away with those blank great
guns because he carried no small arms whatever—that really I could
not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner, whether
he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led by Mr. Jarndyce
into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up his head like a
bloodhound and gave out that tremendous “Ha, ha, ha!”
“You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?” said Mr.
Jarndyce.
“By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!” replied the
other. “He is the most wonderful creature! I wouldn’t take ten thou-
sand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole support
in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment, a phe-

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nomenon. And his father before him was one of the most astonish-
ing birds that ever lived!”
The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so
tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn’s man, on his
forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted
on his master’s head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing the
most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of
a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good illus-
tration of his character, I thought.
“By my soul, Jarndyce,” he said, very gently holding up a bit of
bread to the canary to peck at, “if I were in your place I would seize
every master in Chancery by the throat tomorrow morning and shake
him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones rattled
in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means
or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do it for you
with the greatest satisfaction!” (All this time the very small canary
was eating out of his hand.)
“I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at present,”
returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, “that it would be greatly advanced even
by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole bar.”
“There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the
face of the earth!” said Mr. Boythorn. “Nothing but a mine below it
on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and precedents
collected in it and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low,
upward and downward, from its son the Accountant-General to its
father the Devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand
hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it in the least!”
It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which
he recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed,
he threw up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole
country seemed to echo to his “Ha, ha, ha!” It had not the least effect
in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and
who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side
and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he
were no more than another bird.
“But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed
right of way?” said Mr. Jarndyce. “You are not free from the toils of
the law yourself!”
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“The fellow has brought actions against me for trespass, and I have
brought actions against him for trespass,” returned Mr. Boythorn.
“By heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally impos-
sible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer.”
“Complimentary to our distant relation!” said my guardian laugh-
ingly to Ada and Richard.
“I would beg Miss Clare’s pardon and Mr. Carstone’s pardon,”
resumed our visitor, “if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face
of the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary
and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance.”
“Or he keeps us,” suggested Richard.
“By my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing another
volley, “that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the
most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by
some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but
a walking-stick’s! The whole of that family are the most solemnly
conceited and consummate blockheads! But it’s no matter; he should
not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and
living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the
ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary,
or somebody, writes to me ‘Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Lawrence
Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green
pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr.
Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester’s right of way, being in fact a
portion of the park of chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds it
convenient to close up the same.’ I write to the fellow, ‘Mr. Lawrence
Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Bar-
onet, and has to call his attention to the fact that he totally denies the
whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s positions on every possible subject
and has to add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be
glad to see the man who may undertake
to do it.’ The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye to
construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-
engine until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. The fellow
erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and burn it in the morning.
He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence and pass and repass.

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I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas at their legs, play
upon them with the engine—resolve to free mankind from the in-
supportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians. He
brings actions for trespass; I bring actions for trespass. He brings
actions for assault and battery; I defend them and continue to assault
and batter. Ha, ha, ha!”
To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have
thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same
time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly
smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought
him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature of
his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the
world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a
summer joke.
“No, no,” he said, “no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock!
Though I willingly confess,” here he softened in a moment, “that
Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom
I would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with
a head seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regi-
ment at twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious
and presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew
the breath of life through a tight waist—and got broke for it—is not
the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,
locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?” said
my guardian.
“Most assuredly not!” said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on the shoul-
der with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he
laughed. “He will stand by the low boy, always. Jarndyce, you may rely
upon him! But speaking of this trespass—with apologies to Miss Clare
and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so dry a
subject—is there nothing for me from your men Kenge and Carboy?”
“I think not, Esther?” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“Nothing, guardian.”
“Much obliged!” said Mr. Boythorn. “Had no need to ask, after
even my slight experience of Miss Summerson’s forethought for
every one about her.” (They all encouraged me; they were deter-

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mined to do it.) “I inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I

of course have not yet been in town, and I thought some letters
might have been sent down here. I dare say they will report progress
to-morrow morning.”
I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very
pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a satis-
faction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a
little distance from the piano listening to the music—and he had
small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music, for
his face showed it—that I asked my guardian as we sat at the back-
gammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.
“No,” said he. “No.”
“But he meant to be!” said I.
“How did you find out that?” he returned with a smile. “Why, guardian,” I
explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts,
“there is something so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly
and gentle to us, and—”
Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just
described him.
I said no more.
“You are right, little woman,” he answered. “He was all but mar-
ried once. Long ago. And once.”
“Did the lady die?”
“No—but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all
his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full
of romance yet?”
“I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say
that when you have told me so.”
“He has never since been what he might have been,” said Mr.
Jarndyce, “and now you see him in his age with no one near him but
his servant and his little yellow friend. It’s your throw, my dear!”
I felt, from my guardian’s manner, that beyond this point I could
not pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore for-
bore to ask any further questions. I was interested, but not curious. I
thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I
was awakened by Mr. Boythorn’s lusty snoring; and I tried to do that
very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested

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with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep before I had succeeded, and
dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother’s house. I am not
sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is at all
remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my life.
With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Car-
boy to Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would
wait upon him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid
the bills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs
as compact as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada,
and Richard took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excur-
sion, Mr. Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy’s clerk and then
was to go on foot to meet them on their return.
Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen’s books, adding
up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a
great bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I
had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be
the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I was
glad to see him, because he was associated with my present happiness.
I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had
an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid gloves,
a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house flower in his
button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. Besides which,
he quite scented the dining-room with bear’s-grease and other per-
fumery. He looked at me with an attention that quite confused me
when I begged him to take a seat until the servant should return; and
as he sat there crossing and uncrossing his legs in a corner, and I asked
him if he had had a pleasant ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was
well, I never looked at him, but I found him looking at me in the
same scrutinizing and curious way.
When the request was brought to him that he would go up-stairs to
Mr. Boythorn’s room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared
for him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would
partake. He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the
door, ‘“Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?” I replied
yes, I should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look.
I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much
embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to

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wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave
him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for
some time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a
long one, and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his
room was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now
and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides
of denunciation.
At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for
the conference. “My eye, miss,” he said in a low voice, “he’s a Tartar!”
“Pray take some refreshment, sir,” said I.
Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening
the carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt
quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The
sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on me
to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which he
seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.
He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.
“What will you take yourself, miss? You’ll take a morsel of
something?”
“No, thank you,” said I.
“Shan’t I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?” said Mr. Guppy,
hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.
“Nothing, thank you,” said I. “I have only waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?”
“No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I’m sure. I’ve everything
that I can require to make me comfortable—at least I—not com-
fortable—I’m never that.” He drank off two more glasses of wine,
one after another.
I thought I had better go.
“I beg your pardon, miss!” said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw me
rise. “But would you allow me the favour of a minute’s private con-
versation?”
Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.
“What follows is without prejudice, miss?” said Mr. Guppy, anx-
iously bringing a chair towards my table.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, wondering.
“It’s one of our law terms, miss. You won’t make any use of it to

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my detriment at Kenge and Carboy’s or elsewhere. If our conversa-

tion shouldn’t lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am not to be
prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In short, it’s in total
confidence.”
“I am at a loss, sir,” said I, “to imagine what you can have to com-
municate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but
once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.”
“Thank you, miss. I’m sure of it—that’s quite sufficient.” All this
time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his handker-
chief or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of
his right. “If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine,
miss, I think it might assist me in getting on without a continual
choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant.”
He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of mov-
ing well behind my table.
“You wouldn’t allow me to offer you one, would you miss?” said
Mr. Guppy, apparently refreshed.
“Not any,” said I.
“Not half a glass?” said Mr. Guppy. “Quarter? No! Then, to pro-
ceed. My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy’s, is
two pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon
you, it was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened
period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is
guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months
from the present date. My mother has a little property, which takes
the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an indepen-
dent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road. She is
eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. She never interferes, is all
for peace, and her disposition easy. She has her failings—as who has
not?—but I never knew her do it when company was present, at
which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt li-
quors. My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is
lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the ‘ealthiest
outlets. Miss Summerson! In the mildest language, I adore you.
Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a declara-
tion—to make an offer!”
Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my table

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and not much frightened. I said, “Get up from that ridiculous posi-
tion lmmediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied
promise and ring the bell!”
“Hear me out, miss!” said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands.
“I cannot consent to hear another word, sir,” I returned, “Unless you
get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as you
ought to do if you have any sense at all.”
He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.
“Yet what a mockery it is, miss,” he said with his hand upon his
heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the
tray, “to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul
recoils from food at such a moment, miss.”
“I beg you to conclude,” said I; “you have asked me to hear you
out, and I beg you to conclude.”
“I will, miss,” said Mr. Guppy. “As I love and honour, so likewise
I obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before
the shrine!”
“That is quite impossible,” said I, “and entirely out of the
question.”
“I am aware,” said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray
and regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were
not directed to him, with his late intent look, “I am aware that in
a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is
a poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don’t ring—I have
been brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a vari-
ety of general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out
evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand,
what means might I not find of advancing your interests and push-
ing your fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concern-
ing you? I know nothing now, certainly; but what might I not if
I had your confidence, and you set me on?”
I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be
my interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination,
and he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to
go away immediately.
“Cruel miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “hear but another word! I think
you must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day

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when I waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked

that I could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the
steps of the ‘ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was
well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have
walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby’s house only to
look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day,
quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its pre-
tended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. If I
speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful
wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.”
“I should be pained, Mr. Guppy,” said I, rising and putting my hand
upon the bell-rope, “to do you or any one who was sincere the injustice
of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. If you
have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill-
timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank you. I have very little
reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I hope,” I think I added,
without very well knowing what I said, “that you will now go away as
if you had never been so exceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs.
Kenge and Carboy’s business.”
“Half a minute, miss!” cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was
about to ring. “This has been without prejudice?”
“I will never mention it,” said I, “unless you should give me future
occasion to do so.”
“A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at any
time, however distant—that’s no consequence, for my feelings can never
alter—of anything I have said, particularly what might I not do, Mr.
William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or dead
(of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three
hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient.”
I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his writ-
ten card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. Rais-
ing my eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after
he had passed the door.
I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and
payments and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged
my desk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheer-
ful that I thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident.

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But, when I went upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by

beginning to laugh about it and then surprised myself still more by
beginning to cry about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little
while and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched
than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried
in the garden.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER X

The Law-Writer

ON THE EASTERN BORDERS of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more par-

ticularly in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer,
pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook’s Court, at most times
a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal
process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper—foolscap, brief,
draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-
quills, pens, ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and
wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries,
and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands—glass and leaden—
pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery; in short,
in articles too numerous to mention, ever since he was out of his time
and went into partnership with Peffer. On that occasion, Cook’s Court
was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh paint,
Peffer and Snagsby, displacing the time-honoured and not easily to be
deciphered legend Peffer only. For smoke, which is the London ivy,
had so wreathed itself round Peffer’s name and clung to his dwelling-
place that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the parent tree.
Peffer is never seen in Cook’s Court now. He is not expected there,
for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard
of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches
roaring past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon.
If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in
Cook’s Court until admonished to return by the crowing of the san-
guine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street, whose

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ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he knows

from his personal observation next to nothing about it—if Peffer
ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook’s Court, which no law-
stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly, and no
one is the worse or wiser.
In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby’s “time” of
seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same law-stationering
premises a niece—a short, shrewd niece, something too violently
compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp au-
tumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The Cook’s
Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of this
niece did, in her daughter’s childhood, moved by too jealous a solici-
tude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every
morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger
hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of
vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held, had mounted to the
nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever of the many tongues
of Rumour this frothy report originated, it either never reached or
never influenced the ears of young Snagsby, who, having wooed and
won its fair subject on his arrival at man’s estate, entered into two
partnerships at once. So now, in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, Mr.
Snagsby and the niece are one; and the niece still cherishes her figure,
which, however tastes may differ, is unquestionably so far precious
that there is mighty little of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to
the neighbours’ thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to pro-
ceed from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook’s Court very often.
Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dul-
cet tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining
head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He
tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook’s
Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the
clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy flat ruler,
snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two ‘prentices,
he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. From beneath his
feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there
frequently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice already

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mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these reach a sharper

pitch than usual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the ‘prentices, “I think my
little woman is a-giving it to Guster!”
This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharp-
ened the wit of the Cook’s Courtiers to remark that it ought to be
the name of Mrs. Snagsby, seeing that she might with great force and
expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy charac-
ter. It is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty
shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with
clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some sup-
posed to have been christened Augusta) who, although she was farmed
or contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor
of his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been devel-
oped under the most favourable circumstances, “has fits,” which the
parish can’t account for.
Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round
ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits,
and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron
saint that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the
sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be
near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a
satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the ‘prentices, who feel
that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the
breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can always
find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it
a charity to keep her. The law-stationer’s establishment is, in Guster’s
eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes the little draw-
ing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in pa-
pers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in
Christendom. The view it commands of Cook’s Court at one end
(not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses’ the
sheriff ’s officer’s backyard at the other she regards as a prospect of
unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil—and plenty of it
too—of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs. Snagsby
looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of Raphael or
Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many privations.
Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the

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business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the

tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays,
licenses Mr. Snagsby’s entertainments, and acknowledges no respon-
sibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner, insomuch that
she is the high standard of comparison among the neighbouring wives
a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, and even out in
Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually call upon
their husbands to look at the difference between their (the wives’)
position and Mrs. Snagsby’s, and their (the husbands’) behaviour
and Mr. Snagsby’s. Rumour, always flying bat-like about Cook’s Court
and skimming in and out at everybody’s windows, does say that
Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr. Snagsby is some-
times worried out of house and home, and that if he had the spirit of
a mouse he wouldn’t stand it. It is even observed that the wives who
quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example in real-
ity look down upon him and that nobody does so with greater su-
perciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more than sus-
pected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of correction.
But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby’s being in
his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk in Staple
Inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the spar-
rows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a
Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were
old times once and that you’d find a stone coffin or two now under
that chapel, he’ll be bound, if you was to
dig for it. He solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the
many Chancellors and Vices, and Masters of the Rolls who are de-
ceased; and he gets such a flavour of the country out of telling the
two ‘prentices how he has heard say that a brook “as clear as crystial”
once ran right down the middle of Holborn, when Turnstile really
was a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows—gets such a
flavour of the country out of this that he never wants to go there.
The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully effec-
tive, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his shop-door
looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim westward over
the slice of sky belonging to Cook’s Court. The crow flies straight across
Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn Garden into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

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Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.

Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts.
But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still remain; and
even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman helmet and celes-
tial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and
big-legged boys, and makes the head ache—as would seem to be
Allegory’s object always, more or less. Here, among his many boxes
labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn, when not
speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the
earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day, quiet at his table. An
oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.
Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the
present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention,
able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned, mahogany-
and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables with spindle-
legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the holders of great
titles in the last generation or the last but one, environ him. A thick
and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by
two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks that give a very insuf-
ficient light to his large room. The titles on the backs of his books
have retired into the binding; everything that can have a lock has got
one; no key is visible. Very few loose papers are about. He has some
manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. With the round top
of an inkstand and two broken bits of sealing-wax he is silently and
slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his mind. Now
tbe inkstand top is in the middle, now the red bit of sealing-wax,
now the black bit. That’s not it. Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them
all up and begin again.
Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory staring
down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting
it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. He keeps no
staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits
in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened with business. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great
reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want him; he is
all in all. Drafts that he requires to be drawn are drawn by special-plead-

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ers in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that he requires

to be made are made at the stationers’, expense being no consideration.
The middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of
the peerage than any crossing-sweeper in Holborn.
The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand
top, the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right, you
to the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now
or never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts
on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the
middle-aged man out at elbows, “I shall be back presently.” Very
rarely tells him anything more explicit.
Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came—not quite so straight,
but nearly—to Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby’s, Law-
Stationer’s, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in all
its branches, &c., &c., &c.
It is somewhere about five or six o’clock in the afternoon, and a balmy
fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook’s Court. It hovers about Snagsby’s
door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one and supper at half-
past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions
to take tea when he looked out of his door just now and saw the crow who
was out late.
“Master at home?”
Guster is minding the shop, for the ‘prentices take tea in the kitchen
with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker’s two
daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-
floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two ‘prentices
to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the
unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won’t grow, and never
would, and it is confidently thought, never will.
“Master at home?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears,
glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread
and veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great tor-
ture of the law—a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.
Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts
a bit of bread and butter. Says, “Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!”
“I want half a word with you, Snagsby.”

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“Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn’t you send your young man
round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir.” Snagsby has bright-
ened in a moment.
The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse,
counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the desk.
“Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his
hand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save
words.
“You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
“There was one of them,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feel-
ing—tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!—in the wrong coat-
pocket, “the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like. As I
happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I looked in
to ask you—but I haven’t got it. No matter, any other time will do.
Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this.”
‘“Who copied this, sir?” says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat
on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a
twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. “We gave this out,
sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that
time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to
my book.”
Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another
bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped
short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travel-
ling down a page of the book, “Jewby—Packer—Jarndyce.”
“Jarndyce! Here we are, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby. “To be sure! I might
have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges
just over on the opposite side of the lane.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-statio-
ner, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.
“What do you call him? Nemo?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Nemo,
sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at
eight o’clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine.”

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“Nemo!” repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Nemo is Latin for no one.”

“It must be English for some one, sir, I think,” Mr. Snagsby sub-
mits with his deferential cough. “It is a person’s name. Here it is, you
see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o’clock;
brought in Thursday morning, half after nine.”
The tail of Mr. Snagsby’s eye becomes conscious of the head of
Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means
by deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to
Mrs. Snagsby, as who should say, “My dear, a customer!”
“Half after nine, sir,” repeats Mr. Snagsby. “Our law-writers, who
live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but
it’s the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a
written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the
King’s Bench Office, and the Judges’ Chambers, and so forth. You
know the kind of document, sir—wanting employ?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of
Coavinses’, the sheriff ’s officer’s, where lights shine in Coavinses’
windows. Coavinses’ coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr.
Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance
over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic mo-
tions with his mouth to this effect: “Tul-king-horn—rich—in-flu-
en-tial!”
“Have you given this man work before?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.
“Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours.”
“Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he
lived?”
“Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a—” Mr. Snagsby makes
another bolt, as if the bit of bread and buffer were insurmountable “—
at a rag and bottle shop.”
“Can you show me the place as I go back?”
“With the greatest pleasure, sir!”
Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his
black coat, takes his hat from its peg. “Oh! Here is my little woman!”
he says aloud. “My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads
to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr.
Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir—I shan’t be two minutes, my love!”

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 Dickens

Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps
at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office,
refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently curious.
“You will find that the place is rough, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby,
walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to
the lawyer; “and the party is very rough. But they’re a wild lot in
general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never
wants sleep. He’ll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long as
ever you like.”
It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day’s letters, and against
counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs
and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the general crowd,
in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of
obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life; diving
through law and equity, and through that kindred mystery, the street
mud, which is made of nobody knows what and collects about us
nobody knows whence or how—we only knowing in general that
when there is too much of it we find it necessary to shovel it away—
the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop and
general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and be-
ing in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln’s Inn, and kept, as is an-
nounced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one Krook.
“This is where he lives, sir,” says the law-stationer.
“This is where he lives, is it?” says the lawyer unconcernedly.
“Thank you.”
“Are you not going in, sir?”
“No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good
evening. Thank you!” Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his
little woman and his tea.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He
goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook,
and enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or
so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part
by a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-
headed candle in his hand.
“Pray is your lodger within?”

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“Male or female, sir?” says Mr. Krook.

“Male. The person who does copying.”
Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has
an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.
“Did you wish to see him, sir?”
“Yes.”
“It’s what I seldom do myself,” says Mr. Krook with a grin. “Shall
I call him down? But it’s a weak chance if he’d come, sir!”
“I’ll go up to him, then,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
“Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!” Mr. Krook, with
his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after
Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Hi-hi!” he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly
disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat ex-
pands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.
“Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You
know what they say of my lodger?” whispers Krook, going up a
step or two.
“What do they say of him?”
“They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know
better—he don’t buy. I’ll tell you what, though; my lodger is so
black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he’d as soon make that
bargain as any other. Don’t put him out, sir. That’s my advice!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark
door on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and
accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.
The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it
if he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease,
and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if
poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In the corner by the
chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness marked
with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau on
one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger one is
needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The floor is
bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies
perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the darkness of the night,
but the discoloured shutters are drawn together, and through the
two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in—the

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banshee of the man upon the bed.

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patch-
work, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating
just within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt
and trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral
darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of
its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of winding-
sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskers and his
beard—the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the scum and mist
around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is, foul and
filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are
which most oppress the senses in it; but through the general sickli-
ness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco, there comes into
the lawyer’s mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.
“Hallo, my friend!” he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick against
the door.
He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away,
but his eyes are surely open.
“Hallo, my friend!” he cries again. “Hallo! Hallo!”
As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long
goes out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shut-
ters staring down upon the bed.

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CHAPTER XI

Our Dear Brother

A TOUCH ON THE LAWYER’S wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark

room, irresolute, makes him start and say, “What’s that?”
“It’s me,” returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his
ear. “Can’t you wake him?”
“No.”
“What have you done with your candle?”
“It’s gone out. Here it is.”
Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his
endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger,
that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop,
the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he
has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside.
The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes
slowly up with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. “Does the
man generally sleep like this?” inquired the lawyer in a low voice.
“Hi! I don’t know,” says Krook, shaking his head and lifting his eye-
brows. “I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps
himself very close.”
Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in,
the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not so the
eyes upon the bed.
“God save us!” exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. “He is dead!” Krook
drops the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings

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over the bedside.

They look at one another for a moment.
“Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. Here’s
poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?” says Krook, with his
lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire’s wings.
Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, “Miss Flite! Flite!
Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!” Krook follows him with
his eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old
portmanteau and steal back again.
“Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!” So Mr. Krook
addresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears
and vanishes in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy
medical man brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip
and a broad Scotch tongue.
“Ey! Bless the hearts o’ ye,” says the medical man, looking up at
them after a moment’s examination. “He’s just as dead as Phairy!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he
has been dead any time.
“Any time, sir?” says the medical gentleman. “It’s probable he wull
have been dead aboot three hours.”
“About that time, I should say,” observes a dark young man on the
other side of the bed.
“Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?” inquires the
first.
The dark young man says yes.
“Then I’ll just tak’ my depairture,” replies the other, “for I’m nae
gude here!” With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and
returns to finish his dinner.
The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face
and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his preten-
sions to his name by becoming indeed No one.
“I knew this person by sight very well,” says he. “He has purchased
opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related
to him?” glancing round upon the three bystanders.
“I was his landlord,” grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from
the surgeon’s outstretched hand. “He told me once I was the nearest
relation he had.”

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“He has died,” says the surgeon, “of an over-dose of opium, there is no
doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough here
now,” taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, “to kill a dozen people.”
“Do you think he did it on purpose?” asks Krook.
“Took the over-dose?”
“Yes!” Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible
interest.
“I can’t say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of
taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?”
“I suppose he was. His room—don’t look rich,” says Krook, who
might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance
around. “But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too
close to name his circumstances to me.”
“Did he owe you any rent?”
“Six weeks.”
“He will never pay it!” says the young man, resuming his
examination. “It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pha-
raoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should think
it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth,
and I dare say, good-looking.” He says this, not unfeelingly, while
sitting on the bedstead’s edge with his face towards that other face
and his hand upon the region of the heart. “I recollect once thinking
there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a
fall in life. Was that so?” he continues, looking round.
Krook replies, “You might as well ask me to describe the ladies
whose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he was
my lodger for a year and a half and lived—or didn’t live—by law-
writing, I know no more of him.”
During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all
appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed—
from the young surgeon’s professional interest in death, noticeable as
being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual;
from the old man’s unction; and the little crazy woman’s awe. His
imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One
could not even say he has been thinking all this while. He has shown
neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. He

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has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the tone of a deli-
cate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr.
Tulkinghorn from his case.
He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,
professional way.
“I looked in here,” he observes, “just before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my
stationer—Snagsby of Cook’s Court. Since no one here knows any-
thing about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!” to the
little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he
has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go
for the law-stationer. “Suppose you do!”
While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation
and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook
and he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing,
but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.
Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves. “Dear
me, dear me,” he says; “and it has come to this, has it! Bless my soul!”
“Can you give the person of the house any information about this
unfortunate creature, Snagsby?” inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. “He was
in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know.”
“Well, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough be-
hind his hand, “I really don’t know what advice I could offer, except
sending for the beadle.”
“I don’t speak of advice,” returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I could
advise—”
“No one better, sir, I am sure,” says Mr. Snagsby, with his
deferential cough.
“I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he
came from, or to anything concerning him.”
“I assure you, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his reply with
his cough of general propitiation, “that I no more know where he
came from than I know—”
“Where he has gone to, perhaps,” suggests the surgeon to help him out.
A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook,
with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

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“As to his connexions, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, “if a person was to say
to me, “Snagsby, here’s twenty thousand pound down, ready for you
in the Bank of England if you’ll only name one of ‘em,’ I couldn’t do
it, sir! About a year and a half ago—to the best of my belief, at the time
when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop—”
“That was the time!” says Krook with a nod.
“About a year and a half ago,” says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, “he
came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my
little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appella-
tion) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave
her to understand that he was in want of copying work to do and
was, not to put too fine a point upon it,” a favourite apology for
plain speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort
of argumentative frankness, “hard up! My little woman is not in
general partial to strangers, particular—not to put too fine a
point upon it—when they want anything. But she was rather took
by something about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or
by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies’ rea-
sons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and
likewise of the address. My little woman hasn’t a good ear for names,”
proceeds Mr. Snagsby after consulting his cough of consideration
behind his hand, “and she considered Nemo equally the same as
Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to
me at meals, ‘Mr. Snagsby, you haven’t found Nimrod any work
yet!’ or ‘Mr. Snagsby, why didn’t you give that eight and thirty Chan-
cery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?’ or such like. And that is the way
he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I
know of him except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not spar-
ing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say, five and forty
folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the
Thursday morning. All of which—” Mr. Snagsby concludes by po-
litely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add, “I
have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he were in a
condition to do it.”
“Hadn’t you better see,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, “whether
he had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest,
and you will be asked the question. You can read?”

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“No, I can’t,” returns the old man with a sudden grin.

“Snagsby,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “look over the room for him.
He will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here, I’ll
wait if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it
should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold
the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he’ll soon see whether there is
anything to help you.”
“In the first place, here’s an old portmanteau, sir,” says Snagsby.
Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to
have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though
there is very little else, heaven knows.
The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the chim-
ney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door. The apt
old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with
ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black
coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the peer-
age knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude.
There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portman-
teau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers’ duplicates, those turnpike
tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of
opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda—as, took, such a
day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more—begun
some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularly continued,
but soon left off. There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all refer-
ring to coroners’ inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cup-
board and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel
of an old letter or of any other writing in either. The young surgeon
examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence
are all he finds. Mr. Snagsby’s suggestion is the practical suggestion
after all, and the beadle must be called in.
So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out
of the room. “Don’t leave the cat there!” says the surgeon; “that won’t
do!” Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, and she goes
furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips.
“Good night!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory
and meditation.

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By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the
army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Krook’s window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already
walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where
he stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base
occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back.
Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms
with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in
young Perkins’ having “fetched” young Piper “a crack,” renews her
friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The potboy at the
corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge
of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges
confidential communications with the policeman and has the ap-
pearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and
unconfinable in station-houses. People talk across the court out of
window, and bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery
Lane to know what’s the matter. The
general feeling seems to be that it’s a blessing Mr. Krook warn’t made
away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment that he
was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives.
The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood
to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for
the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body.
The policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the
barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something
that must be borne with until government shall abolish him. The
sensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth
that the beadle is on the ground and has gone in.
By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensa-
tion, which has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to
be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the
coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased. Is imme-
diately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever.
Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. Green’s
son “was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better than anybody,”
which son of Mrs. Green’s appears, on inquiry, to be at the present

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time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months out, but consid-
ered accessible by telegraph on application to the Lords of the Admi-
ralty. Beadle goes into various shops and parlours, examining the in-
habitants, always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and
general idiotcy exasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to
potboy. Public loses interest and undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle
in shrill youthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments
of a popular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made
into soup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to
support the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of
the rest on condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting
it—a condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies off for
the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more
or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-
coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging
way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white gloves one
against the other and stopping now and then at a street-corner to look
casually about for anything between a lost child and a murder.
Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror’s name
is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle’s own name,
which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses served and
his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook’s to keep a
small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently
arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in the
shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which earthly
lodgings take for No one—and for Every one.
And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau; and
the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through five and
forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that any one can
trace than a deserted infant.
Next day the court is all alive—is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins,
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation
with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the Sol’s Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place
twice a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of profes-
sional celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes

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(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round
him and support first-rate talent. The Sol’s Arms does a brisk stroke
of business all the morning. Even children so require sustaining un-
der the general excitement that a pieman who has established himself
for the occasion at the corner of the court says his brandy-balls go off
like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering between the door of
Mr. Krook’s establishment and the door of the Sol’s Arms, shows
the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits and accepts the
compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.
At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen
are waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the
good dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol’s Arms. The coroner
frequents more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of saw-
dust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation
from death in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle
and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his
hat on the piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table
formed of several short tables put together and ornamented with
glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As
many of the jury as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest
get among the spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano. Over
the coroner’s head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a
bell, which rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of
going to be hanged presently.
Call over and swear the jury! While the ceremony is in progress,
sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a large
shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who modestly
takes a position near the door as one of the general public, but seems
familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates that this is Little
Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation
of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the Harmonic
Meeting in the evenlng.
“Well, gentlemen—” the coroner begins.
“Silence there, will you!” says the beadle. Not to the coroner, though
it might appear so.
“Well, gentlemen,” resumes the coroner. “You are impanelled here
to inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given

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before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will
give your verdict according to the—skittles; they must be stopped,
you know, beadle!—evidence, and not according to anything else.
The first thing to be done is to view the body.”
“Make way there!” cries the beadle.
So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner
of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook’s
back second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very
neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has
provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic Meeting
Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are the public chroni-
clers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not
superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print
what “Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district,” said
and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly and
patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according
to the latest examples.
Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction and
seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle-
board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jury learn how the
subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him. “A very
eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen,” says the coroner, “who,
I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery of the death
was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have already
heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-statio-
ner, and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in attendance
who knows anything more?”
Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.
Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper,
what have you got to say about this?
Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and
without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the
court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been
well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but
one before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen

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months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live
such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the
plaintive—so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased—was reported
to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive’s air in which that
report originatinin. See the plaintive often and considered as his air was
feariocious and not to be allowed to go about some children being
timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard for
she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family).
Has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for chil-
dren they will ever be and you cannot expect them specially if of play-
ful dispositions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On
accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him
take a pick-axe from his pocket and split Johnny’s head (which the
child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his
eels). Never however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other
wepping far from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called
after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither
child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the
crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was
here would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).
Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is not
here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absence of the
active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr. Tulkinghorn.
Oh! Here’s the boy, gentlemen!
Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! But
stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few pre-
liminary paces.
Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don’t know that ev-
erybody has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don’t know
that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for him. He
don’t find no fault with it. Spell it? No. He can’t spell it. No father, no
mother, no friends. Never been to school. What’s home? Knows a broom’s
a broom, and knows it’s wicked to tell a lie. Don’t recollect who told
him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. Can’t exactly say
what’ll be done to him arter he’s dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen
here, but believes it’ll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve
him right—and so he’ll tell the truth.

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 Dickens

“This won’t do, gentlemen!” says the coroner with a melancholy

shake of the head.
“Don’t you think you can receive his evidence, sir?” asks an atten-
tive juryman.
“Out of the question,” says the coroner. “You have heard the boy.
‘Can’t exactly say’ won’t do, you know. We can’t take that in a court
of justice, gentlemen. It’s terrible depravity. Put the boy aside.”
Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially
of Little Swills, the comic vocalist.
Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.
Very well, gentlemen! Here’s a man unknown, proved to have been
in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half,
found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence
to lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will
come to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death,
you will find a verdict accordingly.
Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, you
are discharged. Good afternoon.
While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he
give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.
That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he
recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes
hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night when
he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man
turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and
found that he had not a friend in the world, said, “Neither have I. Not
one!” and gave him the price of a supper and a night’s lodging. That
the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he
slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he
ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. That when the man
had no money, he would say in passing, “I am as poor as you to-day,
Jo,” but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartily
believes) been glad to give him some.
“He was wery good to me,” says the boy, wiping his eyes with his
wretched sleeve. “Wen I see him a-layin’ so stritched out just now, I
wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to
me, he wos!”

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As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts

a half-crown in his hand. “If you ever see me coming past your cross-
ing with my little woman—I mean a lady—” says Mr. Snagsby with
his finger on his nose, “don’t allude to it!”
For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol’s Arms
colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of
pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol’s Arms; two stroll to
Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at night,
and top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands.
Being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them
(his strength lying in a slangular direction) as “a rummy start.” The
landlord of the Sol’s Arms, finding Little Swills so popular, com-
mends him highly to the jurymen and public, observing that for a
song in character he don’t know his equal and that that man’s charac-
ter-wardrobe would fill a cart.
Thus, gradually the Sol’s Arms melts into the shadowy night and
then flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriv-
ing, the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced
(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them and support
first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, Little Swills says, “Gentle-
men, if you’ll permit me, I’ll attempt a short description of a scene of
real life that came off here to-day.” Is much applauded and encour-
aged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes in as the coroner (not the
least in the world like him); describes the inquest, with recreative inter-
vals of piano-forte accompaniment, to the refrain: With his (the
coroner’s) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol lo doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!
The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rally
round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now
laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt eyes
in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this forlorn
man could have been prophetically seen lying here by the mother at
whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised to her lov-
ing face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon the neck
to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would have seemed!
Oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within him ever
burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is she,
while these ashes are above the ground!

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 Dickens

It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby’s, in Cook’s

Court, where Guster murders sleep by going, as Mr. Snagsby himself
allows—not to put too fine a point upon it—out of one fit into
twenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tender heart
and a susceptible something that possibly might have been imagina-
tion, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may, now, it
was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby’s account of
the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time she projected
herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutch cheese, and fell
into a fit of unusual duration, which she only came out of to go into
another, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, with short
intervals between, of which she has pathetically availed herself by
consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not to give her warn-
ing “when she quite comes to,” and also in appeals to the whole
establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to bed. Hence,
Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor
Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the subject of day-
light, says, drawing a long breath, though the most patient of men,
“I thought you was dead, I am sure!”
What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he
strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so
men crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about
what cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough that
daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes.
Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning pa-
pers as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook’s and bears
off the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in church-
yard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are commu-
nicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not
departed, while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official
back-stairs—would to heaven they had departed!—are very compla-
cent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would
reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudder at, they
bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christian burial.
With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little
tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate—with every villainy of
life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in

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action close on life—here they lower our dear brother down a foot or
two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption: an aveng-
ing ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shameful testimony to future ages
how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island together.
Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or
stay too long by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into the
windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it
at least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, burning
so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its
witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you should call to
every passerby, “Look here!”
With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court
to the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands and
looks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while.
It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step and
makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly, looks in
again a little while, and so departs.
Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who “can’t
exactly say” what will be done to him in greater hands than men’s,
thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a dis-
tant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: “He wos wery good
to me, he wos!”

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XII

On the Watch

IT HAS LEFT OFF raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney

Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for
Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The fashion-
able intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad tidings
to benighted England. It has also found out that they will entertain a
brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite of the beau monde (the
fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a giant refreshed in
French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat in Lincolnshire.
For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle,
and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge
in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect
from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods
and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and
drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows of
the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It looks
in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and
patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. Athwart
the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a
broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the
hearth and seems to rend it.
Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady
and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady’s woman and Sir
Leicester’s man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a
considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plung-
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ing demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two

centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails,
they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome
and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the
Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king
and queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the
Gate of the Star, out of Paris.
Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady
Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,
drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only
last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay—within the walls playing
with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace
Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more
Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles fil-
tering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a
word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little grid-
iron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing Paris
with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-
visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much
murderous refuse, animate and inanimate—only last Sunday, my
Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair,
almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.
She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul
lies before her, as it lies behind—her Ariel has put a girdle of it round
the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped—but the imperfect rem-
edy is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced.
Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless
avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld,
let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck
glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain—two
dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending
on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob’s dream!
Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inex-
haustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his cor-
ner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to society.

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“You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?”

says my Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has
almost read a page in twenty miles.
“Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever.”
“I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s long effusions, I think?”
“You see everything,” says Sir Leicester with admiration.
“Ha!” sighs my Lady. “He is the most tiresome of men!”
“He sends—I really beg your pardon—he sends,” says Sir Leices-
ter, selecting the letter and unfolding it, “a message to you. Our stop-
ping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of my
memory. I beg you’ll excuse me. He says—” Sir Leicester is so long
in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady looks a little
irritated. “He says ‘In the matter of the right of way—’ I beg your
pardon, that’s not the place. He says—yes! Here I have it! He says, ‘I
beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has ben-
efited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as it
may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return in
reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit,
which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.’”
My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.
“That’s the message,” observes Sir Leicester.
“I should like to walk a little,” says my Lady, still looking out of
her window.
“Walk?” repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.
“I should like to walk a little,” says my Lady with unmistakable
distinctness. “Please to stop the carriage.”
The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the
rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an
impatient motion of my Lady’s hand. My Lady alights so quickly
and walks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous
politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a
minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles,
looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter
of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.
The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three days,
with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or less
plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly politeness

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to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme of general
admiration. Though my Lord is a little aged for my Lady, says Ma-
dame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be her
amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each other. One
observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in hand, to help
my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady, how
recognisant of my Lord’s politeness, with an inclination of her gra-
cious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is ravishing!
The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about
like the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose coun-
tenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in whose
aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the Radical of
Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it after stopping
to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for Chesney Wold, lying only
one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.
Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and through
the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom
together in the woods, and as the Ghost’s Walk, touched at the western
corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, they drive
into the park. The rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree
avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage as it
passes underneath, some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are
come down, some arguing with malcontents who won’t admit it, now
all consenting to consider the question disposed of, now all breaking out
again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who
will persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to
swing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires
gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so
many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front.
But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.
Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester’s
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.
“How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you.”
“I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir
Leicester?”
“In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.”
“My Lady is looking charmingly well,” says Mrs. Rouncewell with
another curtsy.
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My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she

is as wearily well as she can hope to be.
But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady,
who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else
she may have conquered, asks, “Who is that girl?”
“A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa.”
“Come here, Rosa!” Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an ap-
pearance of interest. “Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?”
she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.
Rosa, very much abashed, says, “No, if you please, my Lady!” and
glances up, and glances down, and don’t know where to look, but
looks all the prettier.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen, my Lady.”
“Nineteen,” repeats my Lady thoughtfully. “Take care they don’t
spoil you by flattery.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fin-
gers and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a panel,
as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn’t know what to make of
it, which was probably his general state of mind in the days of Queen
Elizabeth.
That evening, in the housekeeper’s room, Rosa can do nothing but
murmur Lady Dedlock’s praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so beau-
tiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling touch that
Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this, not without
personal pride, reserving only the one point of affability. Mrs.
Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should
say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent family, above
all, of my Lady, whom the whole world admires; but if my Lady
would only be “a little more free,” not quite so cold and distant, Mrs.
Rounceweil thinks she would be more affable.
“’Tis almost a pity,” Mrs. Rouncewell adds—only “almost” be-
cause it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better
than it is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs—
”that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown

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young lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind
of excellence she wants.”
“Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?”
says Watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a
good grandson.
“More and most, my dear,” returns the housekeeper with dignity,
“are words it’s not my place to use—nor so much as to hear—ap-
plied to any drawback on my Lady.”
“I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?”
“If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always
reason to be.”
“Well,” says Watt, “it’s to be hoped they line out of their prayer-
books a certain passage for the common people about pride and vain-
glory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!”
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for
joking.”
“Sir Leicester is no joke by any means,” says Watt, “and I humbly
ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and
their guests down here, there is no ojection to my prolonging my stay
at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller might?”
“Surely, none in the world, child.”
“I am glad of that,” says Watt, “because I have an inexpressible
desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood.”
He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy
indeed. But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa’s ears
that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady’s maid is
holding forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.
My Lady’s maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from some-
where in the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-
eyed brown woman with black hair who would be handsome but
for a certain feline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of
face, rendering the jaws too eager and the skull too prominent. There
is something indefinably keen and wan about her anatomy, and she
has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without
turning her head which could be pleasantly dispensed with, espe-
cially when she is in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the
good taste of her dress and little adornments, these objections so

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express themselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-
wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished in all the knowl-
edge appertaining to her post, she is almost an Englishwoman in her
acquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no want of
words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady’s atten-
tion, and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at
dinner that her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved
when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance.
Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady’s service since five
years and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, ca-
ressed—absolutely caressed—by my Lady on the moment of her
arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! “And do you know how pretty you
are, child?” “No, my Lady.” You are right there! “And how old are
you, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!”
Oh, how droll! It is the best thing altogether.
In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortense
can’t forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her
countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke—an enjoyment
expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of
face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which
intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Lady’s
mirrors when my Lady is not among them.
All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of
them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering faces,
youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not submit to be old;
the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a January week or
two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty
hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking
cover at the Court of St. James’s to their being run down to death. The
place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing
in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants
and hangers-on pervade the village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night
from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long
drawing-room, where my Lady’s picture hangs over the great chimney-
piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the chill
little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the

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general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.

The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no
contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of its
immense advantages. What can it be?
Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the
pity) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There
are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed, swoon-
ing in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by other
dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. There
is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buck-
skins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is troubled with
the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is there dandy-
ism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding, dandy-
ism of a more mischievous sort, that has got
below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-
towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no
rational person need particularly object?
Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There are at Chesney Wold this
January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who
have set up a dandyism—in religion, for instance. Who in mere lacka-
daisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk
about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the
things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fel-
low should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it
out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and
faithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time and can-
celling a few hundred years of history.
There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so
new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the
world and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must
be languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage.
Who are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not
to be disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending in
powder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must ar-
ray themselves in the milliners’ and tailors’ patterns of past

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generations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to re-

ceive any impress from the moving age.
Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with
his party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester
Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see
to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate used
to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a Cabinet is
not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment that sup-
posing the present government to be overthrown, the limited choice
of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie be-
tween Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle—supposing it to be
impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may
be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of
that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and
the leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer
to Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can’t offer him the Presidency
of the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can’t put him in the
Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What
follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as
is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock) because
you can’t provide for Noodle!
On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P.,
contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of
the country—about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner
of it that is in question—is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done
with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into
Parliament, and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you
would have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had
with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would
have brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you
would have got in for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you
would have strengthened your administration by the official knowl-
edge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being as
you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!
As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences
of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished

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circle, all round, that nobody is in question but Boodle and his retinue,
and Buffy and his retinue. These are the great actors for whom the
stage is reserved. A People there are, no doubt—a certain large number
of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied
upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but Boodle
and Buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, adminis-
trators, and assigns, are the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and
no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever.
In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold
than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in
the long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as
with the circle the necromancer draws around him—very strange
appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this differ-
ence, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater dan-
ger of their breaking in.
Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of
injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies’-maids, and is not to he
extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of the
third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and having
an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s room, and is
never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. He is
not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park from the
village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had never been
out of it since he was last seen there, to request a servant to inform
Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he should be wanted, and to
appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of the library-door.
He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag-staff over his head,
and has some leads outside on which, any fine morning when he is
down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like
a larger species of rook.
Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the
library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive
him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night
my Lady casually asks her maid, “Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?”
Every night the answer is, “No, my Lady, not yet.”
One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself

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in deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face
in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.
“Be so good as to attend,” says my Lady then, addressing the re-
flection of Hortense, “to your business. You can contemplate your
beauty at another time.”
“Pardon! It was your Ladyship’s beauty.”
“That,” says my Lady, “you needn’t contemplate at all.”
At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright
groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost’s Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady re-
main upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards
them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slack-
ened. He wears his usual expressionless mask—if it be a mask—and
carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every crease of his
dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great or whether he
yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his personal secret. He
keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that
matter, and will never betray himself.
“How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?” says Sir Leicester, giving him
his hand.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady
is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands be-
hind him, walks at Sir Leicester’s side along the terrace. My Lady
walks upon the other side.
“We expected you before,” says Sir Leicester. A gracious observa-
tion. As much as to say, “Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your exist-
ence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We
bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he
is much obliged.
“I should have come down sooner,” he explains, “but that I have
been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between
yourself and Boythorn.”
“A man of a very ill-regulated mind,” observes Sir Leicester with
severity. “An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man
of a very low character of mind.”
“He is obstinate,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

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“It is natural to such a man to be so,” says Sir Leicester, looking most
profoundly obstinate himself. “I am not at all surprised to hear it.”
“The only question is,” pursues the lawyer, “whether you will give
up anything.”
“No, sir,” replies Sir Leicester. “Nothing. I give up?”
“I don’t mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know
you would not abandon. I mean any minor point.”
“Mr. Tulkinghorn,” returns Sir Leicester, “there can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as
in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. “I have now my
instructions,” he says. “Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of
trouble—”
“It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” Sir Leicester
interrupts him, “TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have
been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished—if not,” adds Sir Leicester after a moment’s pause,
“if not hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory thing to
having the sentence executed.
“But night is coming on,” says he, “and my Lady will take cold.
My dear, let us go in.”
As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.
“You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I hap-
pened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circum-
stance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it
again. I can’t imagine what association I had with a hand like that,
but I surely had some.”
“You had some?” Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
“Oh, yes!” returns my Lady carelessly. “I think I must have had
some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of
that actual thing—what is it!—affidavit?”

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“Yes.”
“How very odd!”
They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders
in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller besides the
waste of clouds.
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before
the fire with his hand out at arm’s length, shading his face. He looks
across his arm at my Lady.
“Yes,” he says, “I inquired about the man, and found him. And,
what is very strange, I found him—”
“Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!” Lady Dedlock
languidly anticipates.
“I found him dead.”
“Oh, dear me!” remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked
by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
“I was directed to his lodging—a miserable, poverty-stricken
place—and I found him dead.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” observes Sir Leicester. “I
think the less said—”
“Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out” (it is my Lady speaking). “It
is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking! Dead?”
Mr, Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
“Whether by his own hand—”
“Upon my honour!” cries Sir Leicester. “Really!”
“Do let me hear the story!” says my Lady.
“Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say—”
“No, you mustn’t say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn.”
Sir Leicester’s gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really—
really—
“I was about to say,” resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,
“that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying that

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he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his

own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be known.
The coroner’s jury found that he took the poison accidentally.”
“And what kind of man,” my Lady asks, “was this deplorable crea-
ture?”
“Very difficult to say,” returns the lawyer, shaking his bead. “He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour
and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he
had once been something better, both in appearance and condition.”
“What did they call the wretched being?”
“They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name.”
“Not even any one who had attended on him?”
“No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I
found him.”
“Without any clue to anything more?”
“Without any; there was,” says the lawyer meditatively, “an old
portmanteau, but— No, there were no papers.”
During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another—as
was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir
Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the
Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately
protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady’s
mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a
begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so
far removed from my Lady’s station.
“Certainly, a collection of horrors,” says my Lady, gathering up
her mantles and furs, “but they interest one for the moment! Have
the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while
she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued man-
ner and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner—again, next day—
again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same
exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be

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bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.

Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confi-
dences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home. They
appear to take as little note of one another as any two people en-
closed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows—all this is hidden, for the time, in their
own hearts.

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CHAPTER XIII

Esther’s Narrative

WE HELD MANY CONSULTATIONS about what Richard was to be, first

without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him,
but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard
said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether
he might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had
thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him
what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of that,
too, and it wasn’t a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try
and decide within himself whether his old preference for the sea was an
ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Richard answered,
Well he really had tried very often, and he couldn’t make out.
“How much of this indecision of character,” Mr. Jarndyce said to
me, “is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and
procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don’t
pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is responsible
for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or confirmed in him
a habit of putting off—and trusting to this, that, and the other chance,
without knowing what chance—and dismissing everything as unsettled,
uncertain, and confused. The character of much older and steadier people
may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. It would
be too much to expect that a boy’s, in its formation, should be the
subject of such influences and escape them.”
I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I
thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard’s

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education had not counteracted those influences or directed his char-

acter. He had been eight years at a public school and had learnt, I
understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in the most admi-
rable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody’s business
to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to
adapt any kind of knowledge to him. He had been adapted to the
verses and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection that
if he had remained at school until he was of age, I suppose he could
only have gone on making them over and over again unless he had
enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. Still, although I
had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and
very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remem-
bered all through life, I did doubt whether Richard would not have
profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying
them quite so much.
To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject and do not even now
know whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made
verses to the same extent—or whether the young gentlemen of any
country ever did.
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Richard, musing, “what I had better
be. Except that I am quite sure I don’t want to go into the Church,
it’s a toss-up.”
“You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge’s way?” suggested Mr.
Jarndyce.
“I don’t know that, sir!” replied Richard. “I am fond of boating.
Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It’s a capital profession!”
“Surgeon—” suggested Mr. Jarndyce.
“That’s the thing, sir!” cried Richard.
I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.
“That’s the thing, sir,” repeated Richard with the greatest
enthusiasm. “We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!”
He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily.
He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it,
the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was the art
of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion
because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself
what he was fitted for and having never been guided to the discovery,

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he was taken by the newest idea and was glad to get rid of the trouble
of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin verses often ended in
this or whether Richard’s was a solitary case.
Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to
put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a
matter. Richard was a little grave after these interviews, but invari-
ably told Ada and me that it was all right, and then began to talk
about something else.
“By heaven!” cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself strongly
in the subject—though I need not say that, for he could do nothing
weakly; “I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry
devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is in
it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary task-
masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art
at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and despicable,”
cried Mr. Boythorn, “the treatment of surgeons aboard ship is such
that I would submit the legs—both legs—of every member of the
Admiralty Board to a compound fracture and render it a transport-
able offence in any qualified practitioner to set them if the system
were not wholly changed in eight and forty hours!”
“Wouldn’t you give them a week?” asked Mr. Jarndyce.
“No!” cried Mr. Boythorn firmly. “Not on any consideration! Eight
and forty hours! As to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, and simi-
lar gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchange such
speeches that, by heaven, they ought to be worked in quicksilver
mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it were
only to prevent their detestable English from contaminating a lan-
guage spoken in the presence of the sun—as to those fellows, who
meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of
knowledge to recompense the inestimable services
of the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive
education with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I
would have the necks of every one of them wrung and their skulls
arranged in Surgeons’ Hall for the contemplation of the whole pro-
fession in order that its younger members might understand from
actual measurement, in early life, how thick skulls may become!”
He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us

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with a most agreeable smile and suddenly thundering, “Ha, ha, ha!” over
and over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite
subdued by the exertion.
As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice after
repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.
Jarndyce and had expired, and he still continued to assure Ada and me
in the same final manner that it was “all right,” it became advisable to
take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore, came down to
dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his eye-glasses
over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did exactly what I
remembered to have seen him do when I was a little girl.
“Ah!” said Mr. Kenge. “Yes. Well! A very good profession, Mr.
Jarndyce, a very good profession.”
“The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently pur-
sued,” observed my guardian with a glance at Richard.
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mr. Kenge. “Diligently.”
“But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are
worth much,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “it is not a special consideration
which another choice would be likely to escape.”
“Truly,” said Mr. Kenge. “And Mr. Richard Carstone, who has so
meritoriously acquitted himself in the—shall I say the classic shades?—
in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the habits,
if not the principles and practice, of versification in that tongue in
which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born, not made, to the
more eminently practical field of action on which he enters.”
“You may rely upon it,” said Richard in his off-hand manner, “that
I shall go at it and do my best.”
“Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!” said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his
head. “Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to
go at it and to do his best,” nodding feelingly and smoothly over
those expressions, “I would submit to you that we have only to in-
quire into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition.
Now, with reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently
eminent practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?”
“No one, Rick, I think?” said my guardian.
“No one, sir,” said Richard.
“Quite so!” observed Mr. Kenge. “As to situation, now. Is there

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any particular feeling on that head?”

“N—no,” said Richard.
“Quite so!” observed Mr. Kenge again.
“I should like a little variety,” said Richard; “I mean a good range
of experience.”
“Very requisite, no doubt,” returned Mr. Kenge. “I think this may
be easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in the first place, to
discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as we make
our want—and shall I add, our ability to pay a premium?—known,
our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large num-
ber. We have only, in the second place, to observe those little for-
malities which are rendered necessary by our time of life and our
being under the guardianship of the court. We shall soon be—shall I
say, in Mr. Richard’s own light-hearted manner, ‘going at it’—to our
heart’s content. It is a coincidence,” said Mr. Kenge with a tinge of
melancholy in his smile, “one of those coincidences which may or
may not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties,
that I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed
eligible by you and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I
can answer for him as little as for you, but he might!”
As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr.
Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before pro-
posed to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day
that we should make our visit at once and combine Richard’s busi-
ness with it.
Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at
a cheerful lodging near Oxford Street over an upholsterer’s shop.
London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and
hours at a time, seeing the sights, which appeared to be less capable
of exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal
theatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth
seeing. I mention this because it was at the theatre that I began to be
made uncomfortable again by Mr. Guppy.
I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada, and Richard
was in the place he liked best, behind Ada’s chair, when, happening
to look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Guppy, with his hair flattened
down upon his head and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me.

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I felt all through the performance that he never looked at the actors
but constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared
expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection.
It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so very
embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But from that time forth, we
never went to the play without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit,
always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down,
and a general feebleness about him. If he were not there when we
went in, and I began to hope he would not come and yielded myself
for a little while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encoun-
ter his languishing eyes when I least expected it and, from that time,
to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening.
I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would only
have brushed up his hair or turned up his collar, it would have been
bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing
at me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put
such a constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or
to cry at it, or to move, or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing
naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of the box,
I could not bear to do that because I knew Richard and Ada relied on
having me next them and that they could never have talked together
so happily if anybody else had been in my place. So there I sat, not
knowing where to look—for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy’s
eyes were following me—and thinking of the dreadful expense to
which this young man was putting himself on my account.
Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that the
young man would lose his situation and that I might ruin him. Some-
times I thought of confiding in Richard, but was deterred by the pos-
sibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy and giving him black eyes. Some-
times I thought, should I frown at him or shake my head. Then I felt
I could not do it. Sometimes I considered whether I should write to
his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a cor-
respondence would he to make the matter worse. I always came to the
conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy’s persever-
ance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any theatre to
which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were
coming out, and even to get up behind our fly—where I am sure I saw

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him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful spikes.
After we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The
upholsterer’s where we lodged being at the corner of two streets, and
my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near
the window when I went upstairs, lest I should see him (as I did one
moonlight night) leaning against the post and evidenfly catching cold.
If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the day-
time, I really should have had no rest from him.
While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. Guppy
so extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring
us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge’s cousin was a Mr. Bayham
Badger, who had a good practice at Chelsea and attended a large
public institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard
into his house and to superintend his studies, and as it seemed that
those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger’s roof, and
Mr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger
“well enough,” an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor’s con-
sent was obtained, and it was all settled.
On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr.
Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger’s house.
We were to be “merely a family party,” Mrs. Badger’s note said; and we
found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded in
the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a little,
playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little, playing the harp a
little, singing a little, working a little, reading a little, writing poetry a
little, and botanizing a little. She was a lady of about fifty, I should
think, youthfully dressed, and of a very fine complexion. If I add to
the little list of her accomplishments that she rouged a little, I do not
mean that there was any harm in it.
Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking
gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised eyes,
some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He ad-
mired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the curious
ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands. We had
barely taken our seats when he said to Mr. Jarndyce quite triumphantly,
“You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham Badger’s third!”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Jarndyce.

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“Her third!” said Mr. Badger. “Mrs. Bayham Badger has not the
appearance, Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two former
husbands?”
I said “Not at all!”
“And most remarkable men!” said Mr. Badger in a tone of confi-
dence. “Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Badger’s
first husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of
Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European
reputation.”
Mrs. Badger overheard him and smiled.
“Yes, my dear!” Mr. Badger replied to the smile, “I was observing
to Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson that you had had two former
husbands—both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people
generally do, difficult to believe.”
“I was barely twenty,” said Mrs. Badger, “when I married Captain
Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I
am quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I
became the wife of Professor Dingo.”
“Of European reputation,” added Mr. Badger in an undertone.
“And when Mr. Badger and myself were married,” pursued Mrs.
Badger, “we were married on the same day of the year. I had become
attached to the day.”
“So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands—two of
them highly distinguished men,” said Mr. Badger, summing up the
facts, “and each time upon the twenty-first of March at eleven in the
forenoon!”
We all expressed our admiration.
“But for Mr. Badger’s modesty,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “I would take
leave to correct him and say three distinguished men.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him!” observed Mrs.
Badger.
“And, my dear,” said Mr. Badger, “what do I always tell you? That
without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction as
I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many
opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak—no, really,” said Mr.
Badger to us generally, “so unreasonable—as to put my reputation on
the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and Pro-

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fessor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Jarndyce,” contin-

ued Mr. Bayham Badger, leading the way into the next drawing-room,
“in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was taken on his return home
from the African station, where he had suffered from the fever of the
country. Mrs. Badger considers it too yellow. But it’s a very fine head.
A very fine head!”
We all echoed, “A very fine head!”
“I feel when I look at it,” said Mr. Badger, “‘That’s a man I should
like to have seen!’ It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that Cap-
tain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor Dingo.
I knew him well—attended him in his last illness—a speaking like-
ness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over
the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham
Badger in esse, I possess the original and have no copy.”
Dinner was now announced, and we went downstairs. It was a
very genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the captain
and the professor still ran in Mr. Badger’s head, and as Ada and I had
the honour of being under his particular care, we had the full benefit
of them.
“Water, Miss Summerson? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray.
Bring me the professor’s goblet, James!”
Ada very much admired some artificial flowers under a glass.
“Astonishing how they keep!” said Mr. Badger. “They were pre-
sented to Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterranean.”
He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.
“Not that claret!” he said. “Excuse me! This is an occasion, and on
an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have. (James,
Captain Swosser’s wine!) Mr. Jarndyce, this is a wine that was im-
ported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago. You will
find it very curious. My dear, I shall he happy to take some of this
wine with you. (Captain Swosser’s claret to your mistress, James!)
My love, your health!”
After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badger’s first
and second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us in the drawing-
room a biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser
before his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from
the time when he fell in love with her at a ball on board the Crippler,

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given to the officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth Harbour.
“The dear old Crippler!” said Mrs. Badger, shaking her head. “She
was a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as Captain Swosser
used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introduce a nautical
expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser loved that craft
for my sake. When she was no longer in commission, he frequently
said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he would have an
inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck where we stood as
partners in the dance to mark the spot where he fell—raked fore and
aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. It was his
naval way of mentioning my eyes.”
Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass.
“It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo,”
she resumed with a plaintive smile. “I felt it a good deal at first. Such
an entire revolution in my mode of life! But custom, combined with
science—particularly science—inured me to it. Being the professor’s
sole companion in his botanical excursions, I almost forgot that I
had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. It is singular that the
professor was the antipodes of Captain Swosser and that Mr. Badger
is not in the least like either!”
We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingo, both of whom seem to have had very bad complaints.
In the course of it, Mrs. Badger signified to us that she had never madly
loved but once and that the object of that wild affection, never to be
recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser. The professor was
yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and Mrs. Badger was
giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great difficulty, “Where is
Laura? Let Laura give me my toast and water!” when the entrance of the
gentlemen consigned him to the tomb.
Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days
past, that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each
other’s society, which was but natural, seeing that they were going to
be separated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised when
we got home, and Ada and I retired upstairs, to find Ada more silent
than usual, though I was not quite prepared for her coming into my
arms and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden.
“My darling Esther!” murmured Ada. “I have a great secret to
tell you!”
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A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt!

“What is it, Ada?”
“Oh, Esther, you would never guess!”
“Shall I try to guess?” said I.
“Oh, no! Don’t! Pray don’t!” cried Ada, very much startled by the
idea of my doing so.
“Now, I wonder who it can be about?” said I, pretending to con-
sider.
“It’s about—” said Ada in a whisper. “It’s about—my cousin Richard!”
“Well, my own!” said I, kissing her bright hair, which was all I
could see. “And what about him?”
“Oh, Esther, you would never guess!”
It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her
face, and to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a little
glow of joy, and pride, and hope, that I would not help her just yet.
“He says—I know it’s very foolish, we are both so young—but he
says,” with a burst of tears, “that he loves me dearly, Esther.”
“Does he indeed?” said I. “I never heard of such a thing! Why, my
pet of pets, I could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!”
To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me round
the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, was so pleasant!
“Why, my darling,” said I, “what a goose you must take me for!
Your cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he could for I
don’t know how long!”
“And yet you never said a word about it!” cried Ada, kissing me.
“No, my love,” said I. “I waited to be told.”
“But now I have told you, you don’t think it wrong of me, do
you?” returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say no if I had
been the hardest-hearted duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I
said no very freely.
“And now,” said I, “I know the worst of it.”
“Oh, that’s not quite the worst of it, Esther dear!” cried Ada, hold-
ing me tighter and laying down her face again upon my breast.
“No?” said I. “Not even that?”
“No, not even that!” said Ada, shaking her head.
“Why, you never mean to say—” I was beginning in joke.
But Ada, looking up and smiling through her tear’s, cried, “Yes, I

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do! You know, you know I do!” And then sobbed out, “With all my
heart I do! With all my whole heart, Esther!”
I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as well as I
had known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had all the
talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of
it); and Ada was soon quiet and happy.
“Do you think my cousin John knows, dear Dame Durden?” she
asked.
“Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet,” said I, “I should think
my cousin John knows pretty well as much as we know.”
“We want to speak to him before Richard goes,” said Ada timidly,
“and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. Perhaps you
wouldn’t mind Richard’s coming in, Dame Durden?”
“Oh! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?” said I.
“I am not quite certain,” returned Ada with a bashful simplicity
that would have won my heart if she had not won it long before,
“but I think he’s waiting at the door.”
There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side of
me, and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in
love with me instead of one another, they were so confiding, and so
trustful, and so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way for
a little while—I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much my-
self—and then we gradually fell to considering how young they were,
and how there must be a lapse of several years before this early love
could come to anything, and how it could come to happiness only if
it were real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolution to
do their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and persever-
ance, each always for the other’s sake. Well! Richard said that he would
work his fingers to the bone for Ada, and Ada said that she would
work her fingers to the bone for Richard, and they called me all sorts
of endearing and sensible names, and we sat there, advising and talk-
ing, half the night. Finally, before we parted, I gave them my prom-
ise to speak to their cousin John to-morrow.
So, when to-morrow came, I went to my guardian after breakfast,
in the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told
him that I had it in trust to tell him something.
“Well, little woman,” said he, shutting up his book, “if you have

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accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it.”

“I hope not, guardian,” said I. “I can guarantee that there is no
secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday.”
“Aye? And what is it, Esther?”
“Guardian,” said I, “you remember the happy night when first we
came down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark
room?”
I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me
then. Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.
“Because—” said I with a little hesitation.
“Yes, my dear!” said he. “Don’t hurry.”
“Because,” said I, “Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And have
told each other so.”
“Already!” cried my guardian, quite astonished.
“Yes!” said I. “And to tell you the truth, guardian, I rather
expected it.”
“The deuce you did!” said he.
He sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once so
handsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested
me to let them know that he wished to see them. When they came,
he encircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed
himself to Richard with a cheerful gravity.
“Rick,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “I am glad to have won your confi-
dence. I hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations
between us four which have so brightened my life and so invested it
with new interests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar
off, the possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don’t be shy,
Ada, don’t be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life
together. I saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But
that was afar off, Rick, afar off!”
“We look afar off, sir,” returned Richard.
“Well!” said Mr. Jarndyce. “That’s rational. Now, hear me, my
dears! I might tell you that you don’t know your own minds yet,
that a thousand things may happen to divert you from one an-
other, that it is well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very
easily broken, or it might become a chain of lead. But I will not do
that. Such wisdom will come soon enough, I dare say, if it is to

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come at all. I will assume that a few years hence you will be in your
hearts to one another what you are to-day. All I say before speaking
to you according to that assumption is, if you do change—if you
do come to find that you are more commonplace cousins to each
other as man and woman than you were as boy and girl (your man-
hood will excuse me, Rick!)—don’t be ashamed still to confide in
me, for there will be nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. I am
only your friend and distant kinsman. I have no power over you
whatever. But I wish and hope to retain your confidence if I do
nothing to forfeit it.”
“I am very sure, sir,” returned Richard, “that I speak for Ada too
when I say that you have the strongest power over us both—rooted
in respect, gratitude, and affection—strengthening every day.”
“Dear cousin John,” said Ada, on his shoulder, “my father’s place
can never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever have
rendered to him is transferred to you.”
“Come!” said Mr. Jarndyce. “Now for our assumption. Now we lift
our eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! Rick, the world is before
you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive you.
Trust in nothing but in Providence and your own efforts. Never separate
the two, like the heathen waggoner. Constancy in love is a good thing,
but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in every kind of
effort. If you had the abilities of all the great men, past and present, you
could do nothing well without sincerely meaning it and setting about it.
If you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great things or in
small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested from Fortune by
fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here or leave your cousin Ada here.”
“I will leave it here, sir,” replied Richard smiling, “if I brought it
here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on to my
cousin Ada in the hopeful distance.”
“Right!” said Mr. Jarndyce. “If you are not to make her happy,
why should you pursue her?”
“I wouldn’t make her unhappy—no, not even for her love,” re-
torted Richard proudly.
“Well said!” cried Mr. Jarndyce. “That’s well said! She remains
here, in her home with me. Love her, Rick, in your active life, no less
than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well. Otherwise,

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all will go ill. That’s the end of my preaching. I think you and Ada
had better take a walk.”
Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook hands
with him, and then the cousins went out of the room, looking back
again directly, though, to say that they would wait for me.
The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes
as they passed down the adjoining room, on which the sun was shin-
ing, and out at its farther end. Richard with his head bent, and her
hand drawn through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and
she looked up in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else.
So young, so beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on
lightly through the sunlight as their own happy thoughts might then
be traversing the years to come and making them all years of bright-
ness. So they passed away into the shadow and were gone. It was
only a burst of light that had been so radiant. The room darkened as
they went out, and the sun was clouded over.
“Am I right, Esther?” said my guardian when they were gone.
He was so good and wise to ask me whether he was right!
“Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at the
core of so much that is good!” said Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his head. “I
have said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend and counsellor
always near.” And he laid his hand lovingly upon my head.
I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I did all
I could to conceal it.
“Tut tut!” said he. “But we must take care, too, that our little
woman’s life is not all consumed in care for others.”
“Care? My dear guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature in
the world!”
“I believe so, too,” said he. “But some one may find out what
Esther never will—that the little woman is to be held in remem-
brance above all other people!”
I have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one else
at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a
gentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexion—a young sur-
geon. He was rather reserved, but I thought him very sensible and
agreeable. At least, Ada asked me if I did not, and I said yes.

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CHAPTER XIV

Deportment

RICHARD LEFT US on the very next evening to begin his new career, and
committed Ada to my charge with great love for her and great trust in
me. It touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now, more nearly,
to remember (having what I have to tell) how they both thought of me,
even at that engrossing time. I was a part of all their plans, for the present
and the future, I was to write Richard once a week, making my faithful
report of Ada, who was to write to him every alternate day. I was to be
informed, under his own hand, of all his labours and successes; I was to
observe how resolute and persevering he would be; I was to be Ada’s
bridesmaid when they were married; I was to live with them afterwards;
I was to keep all the keys of their house; I was to be made happy for ever
and a day.
“And if the suit should make us rich, Esther—which it may, you
know!” said Richard to crown all.
A shade crossed Ada’s face.
“My dearest Ada,” asked Richard, “why not?”
“It had better declare us poor at once,” said Ada.
“Oh! I don’t know about that,” returned Richard, “but at all events,
it won’t declare anything at once. It hasn’t declared anything in heaven
knows how many years.”
“Too true,” said Ada.
“Yes, but,” urged Richard, answering what her look suggested rather
than her words, “the longer it goes on, dcar cousin, the nearer it must
be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not that reasonable?”

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“You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it will

make us unhappy.”
“But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!” cried Richard
gaily. “We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if
it should make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to
being rich. The court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim
old guardian, and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when
it gives us anything) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel
with our right.”
“No,” Said Ada, “but it may be better to forget all about it.”
“Well, well,” cried Richard, “then we will forget all about it! We
consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on her ap-
proving face, and it’s done!”
“Dame Durden’s approving face,” said I, looking out of the box in
which I was packing his books, “was not very visible when you called it
by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can’t do better.”
So, Richard said there was an end of it, and immediately began, on
no other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would
man the Great Wall of China. He went away in high spirits. Ada and
I, prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career.
On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Jarndyce at Mrs.
Jellyby’s but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. It appeared
that she had gone somewhere to a tea-drinking and had taken Miss Jellyby
with her. Besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some considerable speech-
making and letter-writing on the general merits of the cultivation of cof-
fee, conjointly with natives, at the Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this
involved, no doubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink to make her
daughter’s part in the proceedings anything but a holiday.
It being now beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby’s return,
we called again. She was in town, but not at home, having gone to
Mile End directly after breakfast on some Borrioboolan business,
arising out of a society called the East London Branch Aid Ramifica-
tion. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of our last call (when
he was not to be found anywhere, and when the cook rather thought
he must have strolled away with the dustman’s cart), I now inquired
for him again. The oyster shells he had been building a house with
were still in the passage, but he was nowhere discoverable, and the

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cook supposed that he had “gone after the sheep.” When we repeated,
with some surprise, “The sheep?” he said, Oh, yes, on market days he
sometimes followed them quite out of town and came back in such
a state as never was!
I was sitting at the window with my guardian on the following
morning, and Ada was busy writing-of course to Richard—when
Miss Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical Peepy,
whom she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wip-
ing the dirt into corners of his face and hands and making his hair
very wet and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Everything
the dear child wore was either too large for him or too small. Among
his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of a bishop and the
little gloves of a baby. His boots were, on a small scale, the boots of a
ploughman, while his legs, so crossed and recrossed with scratches that
they looked like maps, were bare below a very short pair of plaid drawers
finished off with two frills of perfectly different patterns. The deficient
buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of Mr.
Jellyby’s coats, they were so extremely brazen and so much too large.
Most extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared on several parts
of his dress, where it had been hastily mended, and I recognized the same
hand on Miss Jellyby’s. She was, however, unaccountably improved in
her appearance and looked very pretty. She was conscious of poor little
Peepy being but a failure after all her trouble, and she showed it as she
came in by the way in which she glanced first at him and then at us.
“Oh, dear me!” said my guardian. “Due east!”
Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome and presented her to Mr.
Jarndyce, to whom she said as she sat down, “Ma’s compliments, and
she hopes you’ll excuse her, because she’s correcting proofs of the plan.
She’s going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she knows
you’ll be interested to hear that. I have brought one of them with me.
Ma’s compliments.” With which she presented it sulkily enough.
“Thank you,” said my guardian. “I am much obliged to Mrs.
Jellyby. Oh, dear me! This is a very trying wind!”
We were busy with Peepy, taking off his clerical hat, asking him if
he remembered us, and so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow at first,
but relented at the sight of sponge-cake and allowed me to take him
on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. Jarndyce then with-

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drawing into the temporary growlery, Miss Jellyby opened a conver-

sation with her usual abruptness.
“We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn,” said she. “I
have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn’t be worse off if I
was a what’s-his-name—man and a brother!”
I tried to say something soothing.
“Oh, it’s of no use, Miss Summerson,” exclaimed Miss Jellyby,
“though I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know how I
am used, and I am not to be talked over. you wouldn’t be talked over if
you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beasts under the piano!”
“I shan’t!” said Peepy.
“Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!” returned
Miss Jellyby with tears in her eyes. “I’ll never take pains to dress you
any more.”
“Yes, I will go, Caddy!” cried Peepy, who was really a good child
and who was so moved by his sister’s vexation that he went at once.
“It seems a little thing to cry about,” said poor Miss Jellyby apologetically,
“but I am quite worn out. I was directing the new circulars till two this
morning. I detest the whole thing so that that alone makes my head ache till
I can’t see out of my eyes. And look at that poor unfortunate child! Was there
ever such a fright as he is!”
Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on
the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out of
his den at us while he ate his cake.
“I have sent him to the other end of the room,” observed Miss
Jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, “because I don’t want him to
hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I was going to
say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a bankrupt
before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied. There’ll he nobody
but Ma to thank for it.”
We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby’s affairs were not in so bad a state
as that.
“It’s of no use hoping, though it’s very kind of you,” returned
Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Pa told me only yesterday morning
(and dreadfully unhappy he is) that he couldn’t weather the storm. I
should be surprised if he could. When all our tradesmen send into
our house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like with

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it, and I have no time to improve things if I knew how, and Ma don’t
care about anything, I should like to make out how Pa is to weather
the storm. I declare if I was Pa, I’d run away.”
“My dear!” said I, smiling. “Your papa, no doubt, considers his
family.”
“Oh, yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson,” replied
Miss Jellyby; “but what comfort is his family to him? His family is
nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion,
and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week’s end to week’s
end, is like one great washing-day—only nothing’s washed!”
Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor and wiped her eyes.
“I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,” she said, “and am so angry with
Ma that I can’t find words to express myself! However, I am not
going to bear it, I am determined. I won’t be a slave all my life, and I
won’t submit to be proposed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty thing, in-
deed, to marry a philanthropist. As if I hadn’t had enough of that!”
said poor Miss Jellyby.
I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with Mrs.
Jellyby myself, seeing and hearing this neglected girl and knowing
how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said.
“If it wasn’t that we had been intimate when you stopped at our
house,” pursued Miss Jellyby, “I should have been ashamed to come
here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two. But as
it is, I made up my mind to call, especially as I am not likely to see
you again the next time you come to town.”
She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced at
one another, foreseeing something more.
“No!” said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Not at all likely! I
know I may trust you two. I am sure you won’t betray me. I am
engaged.”
“Without their knowledge at home?” said I.
“Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson,” she returned, justi-
fying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, “how can it be other-
wise? You know what Ma is—and I needn’t make poor Pa more
miserable by telling him.”
“But would it not he adding to his unhappiness to marry without
his knowledge or consent, my dear?” said I.

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“No,” said Miss Jellyby, softening. “”I hope not. I should try to
make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me, and
Peepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay with
me, and they should have some care taken of them then.”
There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softened
more and more while saying this and cried so much over the unwonted
little home-picture she had raised in her mind that Peepy, in his cave
under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back
with loud lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to kiss his
sister, and had restored him to his place on my lap, and had shown him
that Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that
we could recall his peace of mind; even then it was for some time
conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin and smoothing our
faces all over with his hand. At last, as his spirits were not equal to the
piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and Miss Jellyby,
holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence.
“It began in your coming to our house,” she said.
We naturally asked how.
“I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my mind to
be improved in that respect at all events and to learn to dance. I told
Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma
looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn’t in sight, but
I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to Mr.
Turveydrop’s Academy in Newman Street.”
“And was it there, my dear—” I began.
“Yes, it was there,” said Caddy, “and I am engaged to Mr.
Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father and son. My
Mr. Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been better
brought up and was likely to make him a better wife, for I am very
fond of him.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”
“I don’t know why you should be sorry,” she retorted a little anx-
iously, “but I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, whether or no, and he is
very fond of me. It’s a secret as yet, even on his side, because old Mr.
Turveydrop has a share in the connexion and it might break his heart
or give him some other shock if he was told of it abruptly. Old Mr.
Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man indeed—very gentlemanly.”

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“Does his wife know of it?” asked Ada.

“Old Mr. Turveydrop’s wife, Miss Clare?” returned Miss Jellyby,
opening her eyes. “There’s no such person. He is a widower.”
We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergone so
much on account of his sister’s unconsciously jerking it like a bell-
rope whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now be-
moaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he appealed
to me for compassion, and as I was only a listener, I undertook to
hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after begging Peepy’s pardon with
a kiss and assuring him that she hadn’t meant to do it.
“That’s the state of the case,” said Caddy. “If I ever blame
myself, I still think it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married whenever we
can, and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write
to Ma. It won’t much agitate Ma; I am only pen and ink to her. One
great comfort is,” said Caddy with a sob, “that I shall never hear of
Africa after I am married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates it for my
sake, and if old Mr. Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it’s as
much as he does.”
“It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think!” said I.
“Very gentlemanly indeed,” said Caddy. “He is celebrated almost
everywhere for his deportment.”
“Does he teach?” asked Ada.
“No, he don’t teach anything in particular,” replied Caddy. “But
his deportment is beautiful.”
Caddy went on to say with considerable hesitation and reluctance
that there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we
ought to know, and which she hoped would not offend us. It was
that she had improved her acquaintance with Miss Flite, the little
crazy old lady, and that she frequently went there early in the morn-
ing and met her lover for a few minutes before breakfast—only for a
few minutes. “I go there at other times,” said Caddy, “but Prince
does not come then. Young Mr. Turveydrop’s name is Prince; I wish
it wasn’t, because it sounds like a dog, but of course be didn’t christen
himself. Old Mr. Turveydrop had him christened Prince in remem-
brance of the Prince Regent. Old Mr. Turveydrop adored the Prince
Regent on account of his deportment. I hope you won’t think the
worse of me for having made these little appointments at Miss Flite’s,

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where I first went with you, because I like the poor thing for her own
sake and I believe she likes me. If you could see young Mr. Turveydrop,
I am sure you would think well of him—at least, I am sure you
couldn’t possibly think any ill of him. I am going there now for my
lesson. I couldn’t ask you to go with me, Miss Summerson; but if
you would,” said Caddy,
who had said all this earnestly and tremblingly, “I should be very
glad—very glad.”
It happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to Miss
Flite’s that day. We had told him of our former visit, and our ac-
count had interested him; but something had always happened to
prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might have suffi-
cient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking any very rash
step if I fully accepted the confidence she was so willing to place in
me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepy should go to the
academy and afterwards meet my guardian and Ada at Miss Flite’s,
whose name I now learnt for the first time. This was on condition
that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should come back with us to dinner.
The last article of the agreement being joyfully acceded to by both,
we smartened Peepy up a little with the assistance of a few pins, some
soap and water, and a hair-brush, and went out, bending our steps
towards Newman Street, which was very near.
I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at
the corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows. In
the same house there were also established, as I gathered from the
plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was,
certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. On the
plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, I
read, Mr. Turveydrop. The door was open, and the hall was blocked
up by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments in
cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the day-
light. Miss Jellyby informed me that the academy had been lent, last
night, for a concert.
We went upstairs—it had been quite a fine house once, when it
was anybody’s business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody’s busi-
ness to smoke in it all day—and into Mr. Turveydrop’s great room,
which was built out into a mews at the back and was lighted by a

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skylight. It was a bare, resounding room smelling of stables, with

cane forms along the walls, and the walls ornamented at regular in-
tervals with painted lyres and little cut-glass branches for candles,
which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other
branches might shed autumn leaves. Several young lady pupils, rang-
ing from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or
three and twenty, were assembled; and I was looking among them
for their instructor when Caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the cer-
emony of introduction. “Miss Summerson, Mr. Prince Turveydrop!”
I curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance
with flaxen hair parted in the middle and curling at the ends all round
his head. He had a little fiddle, which we used to call at school a kit,
under his left arm, and its little bow in the same hand. His little
dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he had a little inno-
cent, feminine manner which not only appealed to me in an amiable
way, but made this singular effect upon me, that I received the im-
pression that he was like his mother and that his mother had not
been much considered or well used.
“I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby’s friend,” he said, bowing low
to me. “I began to fear,” with timid tenderness, “as it was past the
usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming.”
“I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have
detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.
“Oh, dear!” said he.
“And pray,” I entreated, “do not allow me to be the cause of any
more delay.”
With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who, be-
ing well used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and an
old lady of a censorious countenance whose two nieces were in the
class and who was very indignant with Peepy’s boots. Prince
Turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and
the young ladies stood up to dance. Just then there appeared from a
side-door old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his deportment.
He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false
whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to
his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be com-
plete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and strapped

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down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on

(puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and his chin and even
his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though be must inevitably
double up if it were cast loose. He had under his arm a hat of great size
and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the brim, and in
his hand a pair of white gloves with which he flapped it as he stood
poised on one leg in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of el-
egance not to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had
a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but
any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was
not like anything in the world but a model of deportment.
“Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby’s friend, Miss Summerson.”
“Distinguished,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “by Miss Summerson’s pres-
ence.” As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe I saw
creases come into the whites of his eyes.
“My father,” said the son, aside, to me with quite an affecting
belief in him, “is a celebrated character. My father is greatly admired.”
“Go on, Prince! Go on!” said Mr. Turveydrop, standing with his back
to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly. “Go on, my son!”
At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went
on. Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; some-
times played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with
what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always
conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step
and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His
distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire, a
model of deportment.
“And he never does anything else,” said the old lady of the
censorious countenance. “Yet would you believe that it’s his name on
the door-plate?”
“His son’s name is the same, you know,” said I.
“He wouldn’t let his son have any name if he could take it from
him,” returned the old lady. “Look at the son’s dress!” It certainly was
plain—threadbare—almost shabby. “Yet the father must be garnished
and tricked out,” said the old lady, “because of his deportment. I’d
deport him! Transport him would be better!”
I felt curious to know more concerning this person. I asked, “Does

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he give lessons in deportment now?”

“Now!” returned the old lady shortly. “Never did.”
After a moment’s consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing
had been his accomplishment.
“I don’t believe he can fence at all, ma’am,” said the old lady.
I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more
and more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt
upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong
assurances that they were mildly stated.
He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable
connexion (having never in his life before done anything but deport
himself ), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered
her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which
were indispensable to his position. At once to exhibit his deport-
ment to the best models and to keep the best models constantly
before himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places
of fashionable and lounging resort, to be seen at Brighton and else-
where at fashionable times, and to lead an idle life in the very best
clothes. To enable him to do this, the affectionate little dancing-
mistress had toiled and laboured and would have toiled and laboured
to that hour if her strength had lasted so long. For the mainspring of
the story was that in spite of the man’s absorbing selfishness, his wife
(overpowered by his deportment) had, to the last, believed in him
and had, on her death-bed, in the most moving terms, confided him
to their son as one who had an inextinguishable claim upon him and
whom he could never regard with too much pride and deference.
The son, inheriting his mother’s belief, and having the deportment
always before him, had lived and grown in the same faith, and now,
at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a day and
looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle.
“The airs the fellow gives himself!” said my informant, shaking her
head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless indignation as he drew on
his tight gloves, of course unconscious of the homage she was render-
ing. “He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! And he is so conde-
scending to the son he so egregiously deludes that you might suppose
him the most virtuous of parents. Oh!” said the old lady, apostrophiz-
ing him with infinite vehemence. “I could bite you!”

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I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady out
with feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her with the
father and son before me. What I might have thought of them with-
out the old lady’s account, or what I might have thought of the old
lady’s account without them, I cannot say. There was a fitness of
things in the whole that carried conviction with it.
My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop working
so hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when
the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation.
He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a dis-
tinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it
necessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in
any case, but merely told him where I did reside.
“A lady so graceful and accomplished,” he said, kissing his right glove
and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, “will look leniently on
the deficiencies here. We do our best to polish—polish—polish!”
He sat down beside me, taking some pains to sit on the form. I
thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the
sofa. And really he did look very like it.
“To polish—polish—polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff
and gently fluttering his fingers. “But we are not, if I may say so to
one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art—” with the high-
shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make with-
out lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes “—we are not what
we used to be in point of deportment.”
“Are we not, sir?” said I.
“We have degenerated,” he returned, shaking his head, which he
could do to a very limited extent in his cravat. “A levelling age is not
favourable to deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with
some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been
called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop, or that his Royal
Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my
removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that
fine building), ‘Who is he? Who the devil is he? Why don’t I know
him? Why hasn’t he thirty thousand a year?’ But these are little mat-
ters of anecdote—the general property, ma’am—still repeated occa-
sionally among the upper classes.”

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“Indeed?” said I.
He replied with the high-shouldered bow. “Where what is left among
us of deportment,” he added, “still lingers. England—alas, my coun-
try!—has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day. She
has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to succeed us
but a race of weavers.”
“One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetu-
ated here,” said I.
“You are very good.” He smiled with a high-shouldered bow again.
“You flatter me. But, no—no! I have never been able to imbue my
poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should dis-
parage my dear child, but he has—no deportment.”
“He appears to be an excellent master,” I observed.
“Understand me, my dear madam, he IS an excellent master. All
that can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can
impart. But there are things—” He took another pinch of snuff and
made the bow again, as if to add, “This kind of thing, for instance.”
I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby’s
lover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery
than ever.
“My amiable child,” murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his cravat.
“Your son is indefatigable,” said I.
“It is my reward,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “to hear you say so. In
some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She
was a devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman,” said Mr.
Turveydrop with very disagreeable gallantry, “what a sex you are!”
I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was by this time putting on
her bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there
was a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby and the
unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothed I don’t
know, but they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a
dozen words.
“My dear,” said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, “do you know
the hour?”
“No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had a handsome
gold one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to
mankind.

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“My son,” said he, “it’s two o’clock. Recollect your school at
Kensington at three.”
“That’s time enough for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take a
morsel of dinner standing and be off.”
“My dear boy,” returned his father, “you must be very quick. You
will find the cold mutton on the table.”
“Thank you, father. Are you off now, father?”
“Yes, my dear. I suppose,” said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting his eyes
and lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, “that I must
show myself, as usual, about town.”
“You had better dine out comfortably somewhere,” said his son.
“My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, at
the French house, in the Opera Colonnade.”
“That’s right. Good-bye, father!” said Prince, shaking hands.
“Good-bye, my son. Bless you!”
Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to
do his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with
him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him that I almost felt as if it
were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe
implicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by Prince
in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in
the secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost child-
ish character. I felt a liking for him and a compassion for him as he
put his little kit in his pocket—and with it his desire to stay a little
while with Caddy—and went away good-humouredly to his cold
mutton and his school at Kensington, that made me scarcely less
irate with his father than the censorious old lady.
The father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a
manner, I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In the
same style he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on
his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to
show himself among the few other gentlemen left. For some mo-
ments, I was so lost in reconsidering what I had heard and seen in
Newman Street that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy or even to
fix my attention on what she said to me, especially when I began to
inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever had been, any other
gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, who lived and founded a

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reputation entirely on their deportment. This became so bewildering

and suggested the possibility of so many Mr. Turveydrops that I said,
“Esther, you must make up your mind to abandon this subject alto-
gether and attend to Caddy.” I accordingly did so, and we chatted all
the rest of the way to Lincoln’s Inn.
Caddy told me that her lover’s education had been so neglected
that it was not always easy to read his notes. She said if he were not so
anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear, he
would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short
words that they sometimes quite lost their English appearance. “He
does it with the best intention,” observed Caddy, “but it hasn’t the
effect he means, poor fellow!” Caddy then went on to reason, how
could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole
life in the dancing-school and had done nothing but teach and fag,
fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! And
what did it matter? She could write letters enough for both, as she
knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to be amiable than
learned. “Besides, it’s not as if I was an accomplished girl who had
any right to give herself airs,” said Caddy. “I know little enough, I am
sure, thanks to Ma!
“There’s another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,” con-
tinued Caddy, “which I should not have liked to mention unless you
had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a house ours is.
It’s of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be useful for
Prince’s wife to know in our house. We live in such a state of muddle
that it’s impossible, and I have only been more disheartened when-
ever I have tried. So I get a little practice with—who do you think?
Poor Miss Flite! Early in the morning I help her to tidy her room
and clean her birds, and I make her cup of coffee for her (of course
she taught me), and I have learnt to make it so well that Prince says
it’s the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old
Mr. Turveydrop, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can
make little puddings too; and I know how to buy neck of mutton,
and tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things.
I am not clever at my needle, yet,” said Caddy, glancing at the repairs
on Peepy’s frock, “but perhaps I shall improve, and since I have been
engaged to Prince and have been doing all this, I have felt better-

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tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me out at

first this morning to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat and
pretty and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too, but on the whole
I hope I am better-tempered than I was and more forgiving to Ma.”
The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched
mine. “Caddy, my love,” I replied, “I begin to have a great affection
for you, and I hope we shall become friends.”
“Oh, do you?” cried Caddy. “How happy that would make me!”
“My dear Caddy,” said I, “let us be friends from this time, and let
us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right way
through them.” Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could in
my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage her, and I would
not have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop that day for any smaller
consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.
By this time we were come to Mr. Krook’s, whose private door
stood open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a
room to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me as we
proceeded upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an
inquest and that our little friend had been ill of the fright. The door
and window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It was the
room with the dark door to which Miss Flite had secretly directed
my attention when I was last in the house. A sad and desolate place it
was, a gloomy, sorrowful place that gave me a strange sensation of
mournfulness and even dread. “You look pale,” said Caddy when we
came out, “and cold!” I felt as if the room had chilled me.
We had walked slowly while we were talking, and my guardian and
Ada were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite’s garret. They
were looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good
as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compassion spoke with
her cheerfully by the fire.
“I have finished my professional visit,” he said, coming forward.
“Miss Flite is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is set
upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I understand.”
Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency and dropped
a general curtsy to us.
“Honoured, indeed,” said she, “by another visit from the wards in
Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath

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my humble roof!” with a special curtsy. “Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear”—

she had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, and always called
her by it—”a double welcome!”
“Has she been very ill?” asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentleman whom
we had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself directly,
though he had put the question in a whisper.
“Oh, decidedly unwell! Oh, very unwell indeed,” she said
confidentially. “Not pain, you know—trouble. Not bodily so much
as nervous, nervous! The truth is,” in a subdued voice and trembling,
“we have had death here. There was poison in the house. I am very
susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Only Mr.
Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr, Woodcourt!” with
great stateliness. “The wards in Jarndyce—Jarndyce of Bleak House—
Fitz-Jarndyce!”
“Miss Flite,” said Mr. Woodcourt in a grave kind of voice, as if he
were appealing to her while speaking to us, and laying his hand gen-
tly on her arm, “Miss Flite describes her illness with her usual accu-
racy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might
have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and
agitation. She brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery,
though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. I
have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here
since and being of some small use to her.”
“The kindest physician in the college,” whispered Miss Flite to
me. “I expect a judgment. On the day of judgment. And shall then
confer estates.”
“She will be as well in a day or two,” said Mr. Woodcourt, looking at her
with an observant smile, “as she ever will be. In other words, quite well of
course. Have you heard of her good fortune?”
“Most extraordinary!” said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. “You never
heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday, Conversation Kenge
or Guppy (clerk to Conversation K.) places in my hand a paper of
shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same number in the pa-
per. Always one for every day in the week. Now you know, really! So
well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! From whence do these papers come, you
say? That is the great question. Naturally. Shall I tell you what I
think? I think,” said Miss Flite, drawing herself back with a very

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shrewd look and shaking her right forefinger in a most significant

manner, “that the Lord Chancellor, aware of the length of time dur-
ing which the Great Seal has been open (for it has been open a long
time!), forwards them. Until the judgment I expect is given. Now
that’s very creditable, you know. To confess in that way that he IS a
little slow for human life. So delicate! Attending court the other
day—I attend it regularly, with my documents—I taxed him with it,
and he almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench,
and he smiled at me from his bench. But it’s great good fortune, is it
not? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out for me to great advan-
tage. Oh, I assure you to the greatest advantage!”
I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this for-
tunate addition to her income and wished her a long continuance of
it. I did not speculate upon the source from which it came or wonder
whose humanity was so considerate. My guardian stood before me,
contemplating the birds, and I had no need to look beyond him.
“And what do you call these little fellows, ma’am?” said he in his
pleasant voice. “Have they any names?”
“I can answer for Miss Elite that they have,” said I, “for she prom-
ised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?”
Ada remembered very well.
“Did I?” said Miss Elite. “Who’s that at my door? What are you
listening at my door for, Krook?”
The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared
there with his fur cap in his hand and his cat at his heels.
“I warn’t listening, Miss Flite,” he said, “I was going to give a rap
with my knuckles, only you’re so quick!”
“Make your cat go down. Drive her away!” the old lady angrily
exclaimed.
“Bah, bah! There ain’t no danger, gentlefolks,” said Mr. Krook,
looking slowly and sharply from one to another until he had looked
at all of us; “she’d never offer at the birds when I was here unless I
told her to it.”
“You will excuse my landlord,” said the old lady with a dignified air.
“M, quite M! What do you want, Krook, when I have company?”
“Hi!” said the old man. “You know I am the Chancellor.”
“Well?” returned Miss Elite. “What of that?”

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“For the Chancellor,” said the old man with a chuckle, “not to be
acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain’t it, Miss Flite? Mightn’t I take
the liberty? Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyce and Jarndyce a’most as
well as you do, sir. I knowed old Squire Tom, sir. I never to my knowl-
edge see you afore though, not even in court. Yet, I go there a mortal
sight of times in the course of the year, taking one day with another.”
“I never go there,” said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never did on any
consideration). “I would sooner go—somewhere else.”
“Would you though?” returned Krook, grinning. “You’re bearing hard
upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir, though per-
haps it is but nat’ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt child, sir! What, you’re
looking at my lodger’s birds, Mr. Jarndyce?” The old man had come by
little and little into the room until he now touched my guardian with his
elbow and looked close up into his face with his spectacled eyes. “It’s one
of her strange ways that she’ll never tell the names of these birds if she can
help it, though she named ‘em all.” This was in a whisper. “Shall I run ‘em
over, Flite?” he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turned
away, affecting to sweep the grate.
“If you like,” she answered hurriedly.
The old man, looking up at the cages after another look at us,
went through the list.
“Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want,
Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags,
Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That’s
the whole collection,” said the old man, “all cooped up together, by
my noble and learned brother.”
“This is a bitter wind!” muttered my guardian.
“When my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they’re
to be let go free,” said Krook, winking at us again. “And then,” he
added, whispering and grinning, “if that ever was to happen—which
it won’t—the birds that have never been caged would kill ‘em.”
“If ever the wind was in the east,” said my guardian, pretending to
look out of the window for a weathercock, “I think it’s there to-day!”
We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was not
Miss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature in
consulting the convenience of others as there possibly could be. It
was Mr. Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from Mr.

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Jarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly have at-

tended him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court of Chan-
cery and all the strange medley it contained; during the whole of our
inspection (prolonged by himself ) he kept close to Mr. Jarndyce and
sometimes detained him under one pretence or other until we had
passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to enter upon
some secret subject which he could not make up his mind to ap-
proach. I cannot imagine a countenance and manner more singularly
expressive of caution and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do
something he could not resolve to venture on, than Mr. Krook’s was
that day. His watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. He rarely
removed his eyes from his face. If he went on beside him, he ob-
served him with the slyness of an old white fox. If he went before, he
looked back. When we stood still, he got opposite to him, and draw-
ing his hand across and across his open mouth with a curious expres-
sion of a sense of power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey
eyebrows until they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every linea-
ment of his face.
At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the house
and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, which was
certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop. Here on
the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some
old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall
were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands.
“What are you doing here?” asked my guardian.
“Trying to learn myself to read and write,” said Krook.
“And how do you get on?”
“Slow. Bad,” returned the old man impatiently. “It’s hard at my
time of life.”
“It would be easier to be taught by some one,” said my guardian.
“Aye, but they might teach me wrong!” returned the old man with
a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. “I don’t know what I may
have lost by not being learned afore. I wouldn’t like to lose anything
by being learned wrong now.”
“Wrong?” said my guardian with his good-humoured smile. “Who
do you suppose would teach you wrong?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House!” replied the old man,

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turning up his spectacles on his forehead and rubbing his hands. “I

don’t suppose as anybody would, but I’d rather trust my own self
than another!”
These answers and his manner were strange enough to cause my
guardian to inquire of Mr. Woodcourt, as we all walked across
Lincoln’s Inn together, whether Mr. Krook were really, as his lodger
represented him, deranged. The young surgeon replied, no, he had
seen no reason to think so. He was exceedingly distrustful, as igno-
rance usually was, and he was always more or less under the influence
of raw gin, of which he drank great quantities and of which he and
his back-shop, as we might have observed, smelt strongly; but he did
not think him mad as yet.
On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy’s affections by buying
him a windmill and two flour-sacks that he would suffer nobody
else to take off his hat and gloves and would sit nowhere at dinner
but at my side. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to
whom we imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as
we got back. We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too; and Caddy
brightened exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were;
and we were all very happy indeed until Caddy went home at night
in a hackney-coach, with Peepy fast asleep, but holding tight to the
windmill.
I have forgotten to mention—at least I have not mentioned—that
Mr. Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had
met at Mr. Badger’s. Or that Mr. Jarndyce invited him to dinner that
day. Or that he came. Or that when they were all gone and I said to
Ada, “Now, my darling, let us have a little talk about Richard!” Ada
laughed and said—
But I don’t think it matters what my darling said. She was always
merry.

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CHAPTER XV

Bell Yard

WHILE WE WERE IN LONDON Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by

the crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had
so much astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon after
our arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to project those
two shining knobs of temples of his into everything that went on
and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots
were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philanthropy.
All objects were alike to him, but he was always particularly ready for
anything in the way of a testimonial to any one. His great power
seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. He would sit
for any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his
temples in the light of any order of luminary. Having first seen him
perfectly swallowed up in admiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had sup-
posed her to be the absorbing object of his devotion. I soon discov-
ered my mistake and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blower
to a whole procession of people.
Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something, and
with her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Quale re-
peated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew
Mrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to
my guardian in behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. With Mr.
Gusher appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabby gentle-
man with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for his moon
of a face that they seemed to have been originally made for some-

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body else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he was scarcely
seated before Mr. Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly, whether
he was not a great creature—which he certainly was, flabbily speak-
ing, though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty—and whether
we were not struck by his massive configuration of brow. In short,
we heard of a great many missions of various sorts among this set of
people, but nothing respecting them was half so clear to us as that it
was Mr. Quale’s mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else’s mis-
sion and that it was the most popular mission of all.
Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of his
heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but that
he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where benevo-
lence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as a regular
uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheap notoriety, vehe-
ment in profession, restless and vain in action, servile in the last de-
gree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one another, and intoler-
able to those who were anxious quietly to help the weak from failing
rather than with a great deal of bluster and self-laudation to raise
them up a little way when they were down, he plainly told us. When
a testimonial was originated to Mr. Quale by Mr. Gusher (who had
already got one, originated by Mr. Quale), and when Mr. Gusher
spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a meeting, including
two charity schools of small boys and girls, who were specially re-
minded of the widow’s mite, and requested to come forward with
halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices, I think the wind was in the
east for three whole weeks.
I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. It
seemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and care-
lessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such
things, and were the more readily believed in since to find one per-
fectly undesigning and candid man among many opposites could
not fail to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr.
Skimpole divined this and was politic; I really never understood him
well enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he certainly was
to the rest of the world.
He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London,
we had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in

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his usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.

Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but rich men were
often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he
was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view—in his
expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical attendant in
the most lavish manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes
quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, “Now, my dear doc-
tor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you attend me
for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money—in my expansive
intentions—if you only knew it!” And really (he said) he meant it to
that degree that he thought it much the same as doing it. If he had
had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind attached so
much importance to put in the doctor’s hand, he would have put
them in the doctor’s hand. Not having them, he substituted the will
for the deed. Very well! If he really meant it—if his will were genuine
and real, which it was—it appeared to him that it was the same as
coin, and cancelled the obligation.
“It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,”
said Mr. Skimpole, “but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable! My
butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It’s a part of the pleasant
unconscious poetry of the man’s nature that he always calls it a ‘little’
bill—to make the payment appear easy to both of us. I reply to the
butcher, ‘My good friend, if you knew it, you are paid. You haven’t had
the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill. You are paid. I mean it.’”
“But, suppose,” said my guardian, laughing, “he had meant the
meat in the bill, instead of providing it?”
“My dear Jarndyce,” he returned, “you surprise me. You take the
butcher’s position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that very
ground. Says he, ‘Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence
a pound?’ ‘Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, my
honest friend?’ said I, naturally amazed by the question. ‘I like spring
lamb!’ This was so far convincing. ‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I wish I had
meant the lamb as you mean the money!’ ‘My good fellow,’ said I,
‘pray let us reason like intellectual beings. How could that be? It was
impossible. You had got the lamb, and I have not got the money. You
couldn’t really mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas I can,
and do, really mean the money without paying it!’ He had not a
word. There was an end of the subject.”
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“Did he take no legal proceedings?” inquired my guardian.

“Yes, he took legal proceedings,” said Mr. Skimpole. “But in that
he was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion reminds me of
Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him
a short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire.”
“He is a great favourite with my girls,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and I
have promised for them.”
“Nature forgot to shade him off, I think,” observed Mr. Skimpole
to Ada and me. “A little too boisterous—like the sea. A little too
vehement—like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every
colour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!”
I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very
highly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance
to many things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything. Be-
sides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the
point of breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpole
was referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we had
been greatly pleased with him.
“He has invited me,” said Mr. Skimpole; “and if a child may trust
himself in such hands—which the present child is encouraged to do,
with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him—I shall go.
He proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it will cost
money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that sort?
By the by, Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss
Summerson?”
He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful, light-
hearted manner and without the least embarrassment.
“Oh, yes!” said I.
“Coavinses has been arrested by the Great Bailiff,” said Mr.
Skimpole. “He will never do violence to the sunshine any more.”
It quite shocked me to hear it, for I had already recalled with any-
thing but a serious association the image of the man sitting on the
sofa that night wiping his head.
“His successor informed me of it yesterday,” said Mr. Skimpole.
“His successor is in my house now—in possession, I think he calls it.
He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter’s birthday. I put it to
him, ‘This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed

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daughter you wouldn’t like me to come, uninvited, on her birthday?’

But he stayed.”
Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touched
the piano by which he was seated.
“And he told me,” he said, playing little chords where I shall put full
stops, “The Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother. And that
Coavinses’ profession. Being unpopular. The rising Coavinses. Were at a
considerable disadvantage.”
Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about.
Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada’s favourite songs.
Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew what
was passing in his mind.
After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing
his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the
keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole’s playing. “I don’t like this, Skimpole,”
he said thoughtfully.
Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up
surprised.
“The man was necessary,” pursued my guardian, walking backward and
forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the room
and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high east wind had
blown it into that form. “If we make such men necessary by our faults and
follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we
must not revenge ourselves upon them. There was no harm in his trade. He
maintained his children. One would like to know more about this.”
“Oh! Coavinses?” cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what
he meant. “Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses’ headquarters, and
you can know what you will.”
Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.
“Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soon
as another!” We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpole
went with us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so
refreshing, he said, for him to want Coavinses instead of Coavinses
wanting him!
He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where there
was a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses’ Castle.
On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy

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came out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.

“Who did you want?” said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into
his chin.
“There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here,” said Mr.
Jarndyce, “who is dead.”
“Yes?” said the boy. “Well?”
“I want to know his name, if you please?”
“Name of Neckett,” said the boy.
“And his address?”
“Bell Yard,” said the boy. “Chandler’s shop, left hand side,
name of Blinder.”
“Was he—I don’t know how to shape the question—” murmured
my guardian, “industrious?”
“Was Neckett?” said the boy. “Yes, wery much so. He was never
tired of watching. He’d set upon a post at a street corner eight or ten
hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it.”
“He might have done worse,” I heard my guardian soliloquize.
“He might have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you.
That’s all I want.”
We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on the
gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln’s
Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer
Coavinses, awaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrow alley
at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler’s shop. In it was
a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or an asthma, or
perhaps both.
“Neckett’s children?” said she in reply to my inquiry. “Yes,
Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs.”
And she handed me the key across the counter.
I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for
granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for
the children’s door, I came out without askmg any more questions and
led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four of
us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the second
story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there looking
out of his room.
“Is it Gridley that’s wanted?” he said, fixing his eyes on me with an
angry stare.
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“No, sir,” said I; “I am going higher up.”

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole,
fixing the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and
followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. “Good day!” he said
abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head
on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent
eyes. He had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which,
associated with his figure—still large and powerful, though evidently
in its decline—rather alarmed me. He had a pen in his hand, and in
the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that it was covered
with a litter of papers.
Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tapped
at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, “We are locked in.
Mrs. Blinder’s got the key!”
I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poor
room with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture was a
mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy
child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather was
cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets as
a substitute. Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their
noses looked red and pinched and their small figures shrunken as the
boy walked up and down nursing and hushing the child with its
head on his shoulder.
“Who has locked you up here alone?” we naturally asked.
“Charley,” said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.
“Is Charley your brother?”
“No. She’s my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley.”
“Are there any more of you besides Charley?”
“Me,” said the boy, “and Emma,” patting the limp bonnet of the
child he was nursing. “And Charley.”
“Where is Charley now?”
“Out a-washing,” said the boy, beginning to walk up and down
again and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by
trying to gaze at us at the same time.
We were looking at one another and at these two children when
there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but
shrewd and older-looking in the face—pretty-faced too—wearing a

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womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare
arms on a womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white and
wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which
she wiped off her arms. But for this, she might have been a child
playing at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick
observation of the truth.
She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood
and had made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was
very light, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as she
stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.
“Oh, here’s Charley!” said the boy.
The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out to
be taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of
manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at
us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.
“Is it possible,” whispered my guardian as we put a chair for the little
creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boy keeping close
to her, holding to her apron, “that this child works for the rest? Look at
this! For God’s sake, look at this!”
It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, and
two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and
yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the child-
ish figure.
“Charley, Charley!” said my guardian. “How old are you?”
“Over thirteen, sir,” replied the child.
“Oh! What a great age,” said my guardian. “What a great age, Charley!”
I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her, half
playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.
“And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?” said my
guardian.
“Yes, sir,” returned the child, looking up into his face with
perfect confidence, “since father died.”
“And how do you live, Charley? Oh! Charley,” said my guardian,
turning his face away for a moment, “how do you live?”
“Since father died, sir, I’ve gone out to work. I’m out washing to-day.”
“God help you, Charley!” said my guardian. “You’re not tall enough
to reach the tub!”

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“In pattens I am, sir,” she said quickly. “I’ve got a high pair as
belonged to mother.”
“And when did mother die? Poor mother!”
“Mother died just after Emma was born,” said the child, glancing
at the face upon her bosom. “Then father said I was to be as good a
mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home
and did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before I
began to go out. And that’s how I know how; don’t you see, sir?”
“And do you often go out?”
“As often as I can,” said Charley, opening her eyes and smiling,
“because of earning sixpences and shillings!”
“And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?”
‘To keep ‘em safe, sir, don’t you see?” said Charley. “Mrs. Blinder comes
up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes, and perhaps I
can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and Tom an’t afraid of
being locked up, are you, Tom?”
‘“No-o!” said Tom stoutly.
“When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court,
and they show up here quite bright—almost quite bright. Don’t they,
Tom?”
“Yes, Charley,” said Tom, “almost quite bright.”
“Then he’s as good as gold,” said the little creature—Oh, in such a
motherly, womanly way! “And when Emma’s tired, he puts her to
bed. And when he’s tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come
home and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and
has it with me. Don’t you, Tom?”
“Oh, yes, Charley!” said Tom. “That I do!” And either in this
glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for
Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty
folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.
It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among
these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and
their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of
taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work,
and by her bustling busy way. But now, when Tom cried, although
she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any move-
ment disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges, I saw
two silent tears fall down her face.
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I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the house-

tops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, and
the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found that
Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken
her all this time to get upstairs) and was talking to my guardian.
“It’s not much to forgive ‘em the rent, sir,” she said; “who could
take it from them!”
‘“Well, well!” said my guardian to us two. “It is enough that the
time will come when this good woman will find that it was much,
and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these—This child,”
he added after a few moments, “could she possibly continue this?”
“Really, sir, I think she might,” said Mrs. Blinder, getting her heavy
breath by painful degrees. “She’s as handy as it’s possible to be. Bless
you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the mother died
was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see her with him
after he was took ill, it really was! ‘Mrs. Blinder,’ he said to me the
very last he spoke—he was lying there—’Mrs. Blinder, whatever my
calling may have been, I see a angel sitting in this room last night
along with my child, and I trust her to Our Father!’”
“He had no other calling?” said my guardian.
“No, sir,” returned Mrs. Blinder, “he was nothing but a follerers. When
he first came to lodge here, I didn’t know what he was, and I confess that
when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn’t liked in the yard. It wasn’t
approved by the other lodgers. It is not a genteel calling,” said Mrs. Blinder,
“and most people do object to it. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong,
and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried.”
“So you gave him notice?” said my guardian.
“So I gave him notice,” said Mrs. Blinder. “But really when the
time came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He was
punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir,” said Mrs. Blinder,
unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, “and it’s something
in this world even to do that.”
“So you kept him after all?”
“Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could ar-
range it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its being
liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent gruff—but
gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been kind to the
children since. A person is never known till a person is proved.”
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“Have many people been kind to the children?” asked Mr. Jarndyce.
“Upon the whole, not so bad, sir,” said Mrs. Blinder; “but
certainly not so many as would have been if their father’s calling had
been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up
a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and
tapped their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little
subscription, and—in general—not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte.
Some people won’t employ her because she was a follerer’s child;
some people that do employ her cast it at her; some make a merit of
having her to work for them, with that and all her draw-backs upon
her, and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. But she’s
patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and always willing,
up to the full mark of her strength and over. So I should say, in
general, not so bad, sir, but might be better.”
Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportu-
nity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking
before it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us
when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room
of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seen
on our way up.
“I don’t know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentle-
men,” he said, as if he resented our presence, “but you’ll excuse my
coming in. I don’t come in to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well,
Tom! Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?”
He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded
as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern character
and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My guardian noticed
it and respected it.
“No one, surely, would come here to stare about him,” he said
mildly.
“May be so, sir, may be so,” returned the other, taking Tom upon
his knee and waving him off impatiently. “I don’t want to argue with
ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last one man
his life.”
“You have sufficient reason, I dare say,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “for
being chafed and irritated—”
“There again!” exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. “I
am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!”
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“Not very, I think.”

“Sir,” said Gridley, putting down the child and going up to him as
if he meant to strike him, “do you know anything of Courts of
Equity?”
“Perhaps I do, to my sorrow.”
“To your sorrow?” said the man, pausing in his wrath. “if so, I beg
your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon! Sir,” with
renewed violence, “I have been dragged for five and twenty years over
burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. Go into
the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing jokes
that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell you that the
best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I,” he said, beating one
hand on the other passionately, “am the man from Shropshire.”
“I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishing
some entertainment in the same grave place,” said my guardian com-
posedly. “You may have heard my name—Jarndyce.”
“Mr. Jarndyce,” said Gridley with a rough sort of salutation, “you
bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than that,
I tell you—and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they
are friends of yours—that if I took my wrongs in any other way, I
should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by revenging
them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get,
that I am able to keep my wits together. It is only that!” he said,
speaking in a homely, rustic way and with great vehemence. “You
may tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that it’s in my nature
to do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There’s nothing between
doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad
woman that haunts the court. If I was once to sit down under it, I
should become imbecile.”
The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which
his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied
what he said, were most painful to see.
“Mr. Jarndyce,” he said, “consider my case. As true as there is a heaven
above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My father (a farmer)
made a will and left his farm and stock and so forth to my mother for
her life. After my mother’s death, all was to come to me except a legacy
of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my brother. My mother

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died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of
my relations said that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging
and some other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing
else. No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether
part of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To settle
that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to go into this
accursed Chancery; I was forced there because the law forced me and
would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people were made defendants
to that simple suit! It first came on after two years. It was then stopped
for another two years while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired
whether I was my father’s son, about which there was no dispute at all
with any mortal creature. He then found out that there were not defen-
dants enough—remember, there were only seventeen as yet!—but that
we must have another who had been left out and must begin all over
again. The costs at that time—before the thing was begun!—were three
times the legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful,
to escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my
father’s, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen into rack,
and ruin, and despair, with everything else—and here I stand, this day!
Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands in-
volved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less hard to bear or is
it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it and has been thus
shamefully sucked away?”
Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart and
that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this
monstrous system.
“There again!” said Mr. Gridley with no diminution of his rage.
“The system! I am told on all hands, it’s the system. I mustn’t look
to individuals. It’s the system. I mustn’t go into court and say, ‘My
Lord, I beg to know this from you—is this right or wrong? Have
you the face to tell me I have received justice and therefore am dis-
missed?’ My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to administer
the system. I mustn’t go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me furious by being so
cool and satisfied—as they all do, for I know they gain by it while I
lose, don’t I?—I mustn’t say to him, ‘I will have something out of
some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!’ He is not responsible.

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It’s the system. But, if I do no violence to any of them, here—I may!

I don’t know what may happen if I am carried beyond myself at last!
I will accuse the individual workers of that system against me, face to
face, before the great eternal bar!”
His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage
without seeing it.
“I have done!” he said, sitting down and wiping his face. “Mr.
Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it. I
have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison for
threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that trouble,
and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I sometimes
go beyond amusing them, though they have found it amusing, too,
to see me committed into custody and brought up in custody and all
that. It would be better for me, they tell me, if I restrained myself. I
tell them that if I did restrain myself I should become imbecile. I was
a good-enough-tempered man once, I
believe. People in my part of the country say they remember me so,
but now I must have this vent under my sense of injury or nothing
could hold my wits together. It would be far better for you, Mr.
Gridley,’ the Lord Chancellor told me last week, ‘not to waste your
time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.’
‘My Lord, my Lord, I know it would,’ said I to him, ‘and it would
have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your
high office, but unhappily for me, I can’t undo the past, and the past
drives me here!’ Besides,” he added, breaking fiercely out, “I’ll shame
them. To the last, I’ll show myself in that court to its shame. If I
knew when I was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a
voice to speak with, I would die there, saying, ‘You have brought me
here and sent me from here many and many a time. Now send me
out feet foremost!’”
His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its conten-
tious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet.
“I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour,” he
said, going to them again, “and let them play about. I didn’t mean to
say all this, but it don’t much signify. You’re not afraid of me, Tom,
are you?”
“No!” said Tom. “You ain’t angry with me.”

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“You are right, my child. You’re going back, Charley? Aye? Come
then, little one!” He took the youngest child on his arm, where she
was willing enough to be carried. “I shouldn’t wonder if we found a
ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let’s go and look for him!”
He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in
a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went
downstairs to his room.
Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since
our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very
pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes.
Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising
energy—intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith—
and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, years ago, wan-
dering about in life for something to expend his superfluous com-
bativeness upon—a sort of Young Love among the thorns—when
the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him
with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, ever af-
terwards! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up
all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician, dealing in
all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, he and the Court of
Chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and no-
body was much the worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that
hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses! How delightfully poor
Coavinses (father of these charming children) illustrated the same
principle! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, had
sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had found
Coavinses in his way. He could had dispensed with Coavinses. There
had been times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grand vizier had
said one morning, “What does the Commander of the Faithful re-
quire at the hands of his slave?” he might have even gone so far as to
reply, “The head of Coavinses!” But what turned out to be the case?
That, all that time, he had been giving employment to a most de-
serving man, that he had been a benefactor to Coavinses, that he had
actually been enabling Coavinses to bring up these charming chil-
dren in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues! Insomuch
that his heart had just now swelled and the tears had come into his
eyes when he had looked round the room and thought, “I was the

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great patron of Coavinses, and his little comforts were my work!”

There was something so captivating in his light way of touching these
fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of the graver
childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even as he turned
towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley,
and took her downstairs with us, and stopped outside the house to see her
run away to her work. I don’t know where she was going, but we saw her
run, such a little, little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through
a covered way at the bottom of the court and melt into the city’s strife and
sound like a dewdrop in an ocean.

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CHAPTER XVI

Tom-all-Alone’s

MY LADY DEDLOCK IS RESTLESS, very restless. The astonished fashion-

able intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day she is at
Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow
she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with
confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester’s gallantry has some trouble to
keep pace with her. It would have more but that his other faithful
ally, for better and for worse—the gout—darts into the old oak
bedchamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by both legs.
Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a
demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct male
line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory
of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved,
sir. Other men’s fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may
have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar,
but the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive even
to the levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. It
has come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the pic-
tures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities. Sir Le-
icester is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he has
never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of
his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy, “My
lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to you another
Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout.”
Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder

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as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. He feels that
for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically twitched
and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere, but he
thinks, “We have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has for some
hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make the vaults
in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and I submit myself
to the compromise.
And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold
in the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture
of my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long
perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with
soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in
the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a
chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode a-
hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness. Inside,
his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, “Each of us was
a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and
melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks
now lulling you to rest,” and hear their testimony to his greatness
too. And he is very great this day. And woe to Boythorn or other
daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!
My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her por-
trait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of remaining
there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of the fashion-
able intelligence. The house in town is not prepared for her recep-
tion. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in powder gapes
disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to an-
other Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society,
that if that sort of thing was to last—which it couldn’t, for a man of
his spirits couldn’t bear it, and a man of his figure couldn’t be ex-
pected to bear it—there would be no resource for him, upon his
honour, but to cut his throat!
What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire,
the house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of
Jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light
upon him when he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can
there have been between many people in the innumerable histories

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of this world who from opposite sides of great gulfs have, neverthe-
less, been very curiously brought together!
Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any
link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked a ques-
tion by replying that he “don’t know nothink.” He knows that it’s
hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder
still to live by doing it. Nobody taught him even that much; he
found it out.
Jo lives—that is to say, Jo has not yet died—in a ruinous place known
to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone’s. It is a black, dilapi-
dated street, avoided by all decent people, where the crazy houses were
seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by some bold vagrants
who after establishing their own possession took to letting them out
in lodgings. Now, these tumbling tenements contain, by night, a swarm
of misery. As on the ruined human wretch vermin parasites appear, so
these ruined shelters have bred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in
and out of gaps in walls and boards; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot
numbers, where the rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and
carrying fever and sowing more evil in its every footprint than Lord
Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle, and the Duke of Foodle, and all the
fine gentlemen in office, down to Zoodle, shall set right in five hun-
dred years—though born expressly to do it.
Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the
springing of a mine, in Tom-all-Alone’s; and each time a house has
fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers and
have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps remain, and
there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As several more
houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Tom-all-Alone’s may
be expected to be a good one.
This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be an
insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him so.
Whether “Tom” is the popular representative of the original plaintiff
or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, or whether Tom lived here
when the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers
came to join him, or whether the traditional title is a comprehensive
name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the
pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows. Certainly Jo don’t know.

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 Dickens

“For I don’t,” says Jo, “I don’t know nothink.”

It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the
streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the
meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops,
and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows!
To see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen
deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that language—to
be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! It must be very puz-
zling to see the good company going to the churches on Sundays,
with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps Jo does
think at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means anything
to anybody, how comes it that it means nothing to me? To be hustled,
and jostled, and moved on; and really to feel that it would appear to
be perfectly true that I have no business here, or there, or anywhere;
and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that I am here some-
how, too, and everybody overlooked me until I became the creature
that I am! It must be a strange state, not merely to be told that I am
scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a witness),
but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! To see the horses,
dogs, and cattle go by me and to know that in ignorance I belong to
them and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose delicacy I
offend! Jo’s ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a bishop, or a
govemment, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it)
the Constitution, should be strange! His whole material and imma-
terial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest thing of all.
Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone’s, meeting the tardy morning which
is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of
bread as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and
the houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-
step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign
Parts and gives it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment
of the accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice and won-
ders what it’s all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual
destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific or what it costs to look up the
precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit.
He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The
town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and

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whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been
suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other lower
animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is market-day.
The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided, run into
wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and foaming at
stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt
themselves. Very like Jo and his order; very, very like!
A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog—
a drover’s dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher’s shop, and
evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for
some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting
three or four, can’t remember where he left them, looks up and down
the street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his
ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog, accus-
tomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep,
ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs and tear out mouthfuls
of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has
been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He and Jo
listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal
satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or re-
gret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they
are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human
listener is the brute!
Turn that dog’s descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years
they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark—but not
their bite.
The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and driz-
zly. Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and wheels, the
horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for
the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all-Alone’s. Twilight comes on; gas
begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder, runs
along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is beginning
to close in.
In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to
the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, a
disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming. We
are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall

234
 Dickens

be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened Allegory, in the

person of one impossible Roman upside down, points with the arm
of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively toward the
window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason, look
out of window? Is the hand not always pointing there? So he does
not look out of window.
And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There are
women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks—too many; they are
at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, they
create business for lawyers. What would it be to see a woman going by, even
though she were going secretly? They are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows
that very well.
But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his
house behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner
there is something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper
servant by her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried
and assumed—as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which
she treads with an unaccustomed foot—she is a lady. Her face is
veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than
one of those who pass her look round sharply.
She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her
and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes to the
crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her and
begs. Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the
other side. Then she slightly beckons to him and says, “Come here!”
Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.
“Are you the boy I’ve read of in the papers?” she asked behind her veil.
“I don’t know,” says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, “nothink
about no papers. I don’t know nothink about nothink at all.”
“Were you examined at an inquest?”
“I don’t know nothink about no—where I was took by the beadle,
do you mean?” says Jo. “Was the boy’s name at the inkwhich Jo?”
“Yes.”
“That’s me!” says Jo.
“Come farther up.”
“You mean about the man?” says Jo, following. “Him as wos dead?”
“Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living,
so very ill and poor?”
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“Oh, jist!” says Jo.

“Did he look like—not like you?” says the woman with abhor-
rence.
“Oh, not so bad as me,” says Jo. “I’m a reg’lar one I am! You didn’t
know him, did you?”
“How dare you ask me if I knew him?”
“No offence, my lady,” says Jo with much humility, for even he
has got at the suspicion of her being a lady.
“I am not a lady. I am a servant.”
“You are a jolly servant!” says Jo without the least idea of saying
anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.
“Listen and be silent. Don’t talk to me, and stand farther from me!
Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account
I read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where
you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? Do you know
the place where he was buried?”
Jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was
mentioned.
“Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop oppo-
site to each, and don’t speak to me unless I speak to you. Don’t look
back. Do what I want, and I will pay you well.”
Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off
on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider
their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.
“I’m fly,” says Jo. “But fen larks, you know. Stow hooking it!”
“What does the horrible creature mean?” exclaims the servant, re-
coiling from him.
“Stow cutting away, you know!” says Jo.
“I don’t understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money
than you ever had in your life.”
Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,
takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with
his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire.
Cook’s Court. Jo stops. A pause.
“Who lives here?”
“Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull,” says Jo in
a whisper without looking over his shoulder.

236
 Dickens

“Go on to the next.”

Krook’s house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.
“Who lives here?”
“He lived here,” Jo answers as before.
After a silence he is asked, “In which room?”
“In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this
corner. Up there! That’s where I see him stritched out. This is the
public-ouse where I was took to.”
“Go on to the next!”
It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his first
suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look
round. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds,
they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted
now), and to the iron gate.
“He was put there,” says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.
“Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!”
“There!” says Jo, pointing. “Over yinder. Arnong them piles of bones,
and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery nigh the
top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver it
for you with my broom if the gate was open. That’s why they locks it,
I s’pose,” giving it a shake. “It’s always locked. Look at the rat!” cries
Jo, excited. “Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the ground!”
The servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideous
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting
out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from
her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo
stands staring and is still staring when she recovers herself.
“Is this place of abomination consecrated ground?”
“I don’t know nothink of consequential ground,” says Jo, still staring.
“Is it blessed?”
“Which?” says Jo, in the last degree amazed.
“Is it blessed?”
“I’m blest if I know,” says Jo, staring more than ever; “but I shouldn’t
think it warn’t. Blest?” repeats Jo, something troubled in his mind. “It
an’t done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think it was t’othered
myself. But I don’t know nothink!”
The servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to take

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of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to get some
money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small her
hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling
rings.
She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, and
shuddering as their hands approach. “Now,” she adds, “show me the
spot again!”
Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate,
and with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At length,
looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds that
he is alone.
His first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light
and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow—gold. His next is
to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its quality. His next, to
put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep the step and passage with
great care. His job done, he sets off for Tom-all-Alone’s, stopping in
the light of innumerable gas-lamps to produce the piece of gold and
give it another one-sided bite as a reassurance of its being genuine.
The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my
Lady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester is
fidgety down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than the
goat; he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such a
monotonous pattering on the terrace that he can’t read the paper
even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room.
“Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of the
house, my dear,” says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. “His dressing-room
is on my Lady’s side. And in all these years I never heard the step
upon the Ghost’s Walk more distinct than it is to-night!”

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XVII

Esther’s Narrative
RICHARD VERY OFTEN came to see us while we remained in London
(though he soon failed in his letter-writing), and with his quick abili-
ties, his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was
always delightful. But though I liked him more and more the better
I knew him, I still felt more and more how much it was to be regret-
ted that he had been educated in no habits of application and con-
centration. The system which had addressed him in exactly the same
manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in
character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks,
always with fair credit and often with distinction, but in a fitful,
dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities
in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. They
were good qualities, without which no high place can be meritori-
ously won, but like fire and water, though excellent servants, they
were very bad masters. If they had been under Richard’s direction,
they would have been his friends; but Richard being under their di-
rection, they became his enemies.
I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or any
other thing was so because I thought so, but only because I did think
so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did. These
were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I often observed besides
how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that the uncer-
tainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his nature
something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that he was
part of a great gaming system.
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Bleak House

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon when my

guardian was not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally
inquired after Richard.
“Why, Mr. Carstone,” said Mrs. Badger, “is very well and is, I
assure you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser used
to say of me that I was always better than land a-head and a breeze a-
starn to the midshipmen’s mess when the purser’s junk had become
as tough as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was his naval way of
mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to any society. I may
render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Carstone. But I—you
won’t think me premature if I mention it?”
I said no, as Mrs. Badger’s insinuating tone seemed to require such
an answer.
“Nor Miss Clare?” said Mrs. Bayham Badger sweetly.
Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy.
“Why, you see, my dears,” said Mrs. Badger, “—you’ll excuse me
calling you my dears?”
We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it.
“Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,”
pursued Mrs. Badger, “so perfectly charming. You see, my dears, that
although I am still young—or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me the com-
pliment of saying so—”
“No,” Mr. Badger called out like some one contradicting at a pub-
lic meeting. “Not at all!”
“Very well,” smiled Mrs. Badger, “we will say still young.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Badger.
“My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities of ob-
serving young men. There were many such on board the dear old Crippler,
I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain Swosser in the Mediter-
ranean, I embraced every opportunity of knowing and befriending the
midshipmen under Captain Swosser’s command. You never heard them
called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably wonld not under-
stand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts, but it is other-
wise with me, for blue water has been a second home to me, and I have
been quite a sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo.”
“A man of European reputation,” murmured Mr. Badger.
“When I lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear sec-

240
 Dickens

ond,” said Mrs. Badger, speaking of her former husbands as if they

were parts of a charade, “I still enjoyed opportunities of observing
youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo’s lectures was a large
one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific
man seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it could im-
part, to throw our house open to the students as a kind of Scientific
Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and a mixed
biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments. And there
was science to an unlimited extent.”
“Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Bad-
ger reverentially. “There must have been great intellectual friction
going on there under the auspices of such a man!”
“And now,” pursued Mrs. Badger, “now that I am the wife of my
dear third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observation which
were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted to
new and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo.
I therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as a
neophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he
has not chosen his profession advisedly.”
Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Badger on what
she founded her supposition.
“My dear Miss Summerson,” she replied, “on Mr. Carstone’s char-
acter and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probably
he would never think it worthwhile to mention how he really feels,
but he feels languid about the profession. He has not that positive
interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has any decided im-
pression in reference to it, I should say it was that it is a tiresome
pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men like Mr. Allan
Woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all that it can do
will find some reward in it through a great deal of work for a very
little money and through years of considerable endurance and disap-
pointment. But I am quite convinced that this would never be the
case with Mr. Carstone.”
“Does Mr. Badger think so too?” asked Ada timidly.
“Why,” said Mr. Badger, “to tell the truth, Miss Clare, this view of
the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger mentioned it.
But when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally gave great con-

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sideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Badger’s mind, in addition to its

natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by two
such very distinguished (I will even say illustrious) public men as Cap-
tain Swosser of the Royal Navy and Professor Dingo. The conclusion
at which I have arrived is—in short, is Mrs. Badger’s conclusion.”
“It was a maxim of Captain Swosser’s,” said Mrs. Badger, “speak-
ing in his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot,
you cannot make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a
plank, you should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears
to me that this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the
nautical profession.
“To all professions,” observed Mr. Badger. “It was admirably said
by Captain Swosser. Beautifully said.”
“People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in the
north of Devon after our marriage,” said Mrs. Badger, “that he dis-
figured some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off frag-
ments of those edifices with his little geological hammer. But the
professor replied that he knew of no building save the Temple of
Science. The principle is the same, I think?”
“Precisely the same,” said Mr. Badger. “Finely expressed! The pro-
fessor made the same remark, Miss Summerson, in his last illness,
when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little hammer
under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of the attendants.
The ruling passion!”
Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr.
and Mrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated
to us and that there was a great probability of its being sound. We
agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken to Richard;
and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very serious
talk with him.
So after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and found
my darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider him thor-
oughly right in whatever he said.
“And how do you get on, Richard?” said I. I always sat down on the
other side of him. He made quite a sister of me.
“Oh! Well enough!” said Richard.

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 Dickens

“He can’t say better than that, Esther, can he?” cried my pet trium-
phantly. I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course
I couldn’t.
“Well enough?” I repeated.
“Yes,” said Richard, “well enough. It’s rather jog-trotty and hum-
drum. But it’ll do as well as anything else!”
“Oh! My dear Richard!” I remonstrated.
“What’s the matter?” said Richard.
“Do as well as anything else!”
“I don’t think there’s any harm in that, Dame Durden,” said Ada,
looking so confidingly at me across him; “because if it will do as well as
anything else, it will do very well, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, I hope so,” returned Richard, carelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. “After all, it may be only a kind of probation till
our suit is—I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit. Forbid-
den ground! Oh, yes, it’s all right enough. Let us talk about some-
thing else.”
Ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion that
we had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But I
thought it would be useless to stop there, so I began again.
“No, but Richard,” said I, “and my dear Ada! Consider how im-
portant it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards
your cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnest without
any reservation. I think we had better talk about this, really, Ada. It
will be too late very soon.”
“Oh, yes! We must talk about it!” said Ada. “But I think Richard
is right.”
What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so
pretty, and so engaging, and so fond of him!
“Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard,” said I, “and
they seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the
profession.”
“Did they though?” said Richard. “Oh! Well, that rather alters the
case, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I should not
have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact is, I don’t
care much about it. But, oh, it don’t matter! It’ll do as well as any-
thing else!”

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“You hear him, Ada!” said I.

“The fact is,” Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half jocosely,
“it is not quite in my way. I don’t take to it. And I get too much of
Mrs. Bayham Badger’s first and second.”
“I am sure that’s very natural!” cried Ada, quite delighted. “The
very thing we both said yesterday, Esther!”
“Then,” pursued Richard, “it’s monotonous, and to-day is too like
yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day.”
“But I am afraid,” said I, “this is an objection to all kinds of appli-
cation—to life itself, except under some very uncommon circum-
stances.”
“Do you think so?” returned Richard, still considering. “Perhaps!
Ha! Why, then, you know,” he added, suddenly becoming gay again,
“we travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It’ll do as well as
anything else. Oh, it’s all right enough! Let us talk about some-
thing else.”
But even Ada, with her loving face—and if it had seemed innocent
and trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog,
how much more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and
trusting heart—even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So
I thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he were
sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never meant to
be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of his affectionate consider-
ation for her not to slight the importance of a step that might influ-
ence both their lives. This made him almost grave.
“My dear Mother Hubbard,” he said, “that’s the very thing! I have
thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself
for meaning to be so much in earnest and—somehow—not exactly
being so. I don’t know how it is; I seem to want something or other
to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my
darling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don’t settle down to
constancy in other things. It’s such uphill work, and it takes such a
time!” said Richard with an air of vexation.
“That may be,” I suggested, “because you don’t like what you have
chosen.”
“Poor fellow!” said Ada. “I am sure I don’t wonder at it!”
No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried again,

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but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I could, while
Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while he looked at
her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!
“You see, my precious girl,” said Richard, passing her golden curls
through and through his hand, “I was a little hasty perhaps; or I
misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don’t seem to lie
in that direction. I couldn’t tell till I tried. Now the question is whether
it’s worth-while to undo all that has been done. It seems like making
a great disturbance about nothing particular.”
“My dear Richard,” said I, “how can you say about nothing par-
ticular?”
“I don’t mean absolutely that,” he returned. “I mean that it may be
nothing particular because I may never want it.”
Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly
worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be un-
done. I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more
congenial pursuit.
“There, my dear Mrs. Shipton,” said Richard, “you touch me home.
Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me.”
“The law!” repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.
“If I went into Kenge’s office,” said Richard, “and if I were
placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the—hum!—
the forbidden ground—and should be able to study it, and master it,
and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly
conducted. I should be able to look after Ada’s interests and my own
interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and
all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour.”
I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hanker-
ing after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes
cast a shade on Ada’s face. But I thought it best to encourage him in
any project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite
sure that his mind was made up now.
“My dear Minerva,” said Richard, “I am as steady as you are. I
made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won’t do so any more,
and I’ll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is, you know,”
said Richard, relapsing into doubt, “if it really is worth-while, after
all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!”

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This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all that we
had said already and to our coming to much the same conclusion
afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to be frank and open
with Mr. Jarndyce, without a moment’s delay, and his disposition
was naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought him out at
once (taking us with him) and made a full avowal. “Rick,” said my
guardian, after hearing him attentively, “we can retreat with honour,
and we will. But we must he careful—for our cousin s sake, Rick, for
our cousin’s sake—that we make no more such mistakes. Therefore,
in the matter of the law, we will have a
good trial before we decide. We will look before we leap, and take
plenty of time about it.”
Richard’s energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he
would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge’s
office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on the
spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution that we
had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with sitting down
among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his one unvarying
purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now held
possession of him. My guardian was very kind and cordial with him,
but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when he had departed and
we were going upstairs to bed, to say, “Cousin John, I hope you don’t
think the worse of Richard?”
“No, my love,” said he.
“Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken in
such a difficult case. It is not uncommon.”
“No, no, my love,” said he. “Don’t look unhappy.”
“Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin John!” said Ada, smiling cheer-
fully, with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bid-
ding him good night. “But I should be a little so if you thought at all
the worse of Richard.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “I should think the worse of him
only if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should
be more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor
Rick, for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing! He has
time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of him? Not
I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!”

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“No, indeed, cousin John,” said Ada, “I am sure I could not—I am

sure I would not—think any ill of Richard if the whole world did. I
could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other time!”
So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his shoul-
ders—both hands now—and looking up into his face, like the pic-
ture of truth!
“I think,” said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, “I think it
must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall
occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the fa-
ther. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. Pleasant
slumbers! Happy dreams!”
This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes with
something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well remem-
bered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard when
she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little while since he had
watched them passing down the room in which the sun was shining,
and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and even the silent
look of confidence in me which now followed it once more was not
quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally been.
Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praised
him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her
clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I
kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil and
happy she looked.
For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat up
working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but I
was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don’t know why. At least I don’t
think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don’t think it matters.
At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that
I would leave myself not a moment’s leisure to be low-spirited. For I
naturally said, “Esther! You to be low-spirited. you!” And it really was
time to say so, for I—yes, I really did see myself in the glass, almost
crying. “As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead of ev-
erything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!” said I.
If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it di-
rectly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basket some
ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was busy

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with at that time and sat down to it with great determination. It was
necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to go on
with it until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and then to go to bed.
I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs
in a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a
stop for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get it.
To my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian still there,
and sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay
unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered con-
fusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering
among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked
worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, I
stood still for a moment and should have retired without speaking
had he not, in again passing his hand abstractedly through his hair,
seen me and started.
“Esther!”
I told him what I had come for.
“At work so late, my dear?”
“I am working late to-night,” said I, “because I couldn’t sleep and
wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and look
weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?”
“None, little woman, that you would readily understand,” said he.
He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly re-
peated, as if that would help me to his meaning, “That I could readily
understand!”
“Remain a moment, Esther,” said he, “You were in my thoughts.”
“I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?”
He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The
change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so
much self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating,
“None that I could understand!”
“Little woman,” said my guardian, “I was thinking—that is, I have
been thinking since I have been sitting here—that you ought to know
of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to nothing.”
“Dear guardian,” I replied, “when you spoke to me before on that
subject—”
“But since then,” he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant

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to say, “I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my
having anything to tell you, are different considerations, Esther. It is
perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know.”
“If you think so, guardian, it is right.”
“I think so,” he returned very gently, and kindly, and very
distinctly. “My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantage
can attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth
a thought, it is right that you at least of all the world should not
magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature.”
I sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as I ought to
be, “One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words:
‘Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time
will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better,
and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.’” I had covered my
face with my hands in repeating the words, but I took them away
now with a better kind of shame, I hope, and told him that to him
I owed the blessing that I had from my childhood to that hour
never, never, never felt it. He put up his hand as if to stop me. I
well knew that he was never to be thanked, and said no more.
“Nine years, my dear,” he said after thinking for a little while, “have
passed since I received a letter from a lady living in seclusion, written
with a stern passion and power that rendered it unlike all other letters
I have ever read. It was written to me (as it told me in so many words),
perhaps because it was the writer’s idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me,
perhaps because it was mine to justify it. It told me of a child, an
orphan girl then twelve years old, in some such cruel words as those
which live in your remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred
her in secrecy from her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence,
and that if the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she
would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked me
to consider if I would, in that case, finish what the writer had begun.”
I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.
“Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium
through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the
distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the need
there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was quite
innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, in her darkened life, and

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replied to the letter.”

I took his hand and kissed it.
“It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see the
writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the
world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would appoint
one. I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own accord and
not of his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. That she was,
if there were any ties of blood in such a case, the child’s aunt. That
more than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the
steadfastness of her resolution) for any human consideration disclose.
My dear, I have told you all.”
I held his hand for a little while in mine.
“I saw my ward oftener than she saw me,” he added, cheerily mak-
ing light of it, “and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.
She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every
hour in every day!”
“And oftener still,” said I, ‘“she blesses the guardian who is a father
to her!”
At the word father, I saw his former trouble come into his face.
He subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it had
been there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as if
they had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, wondering,
“That I could readily understand. None that I could readily under-
stand!” No, it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and
many a day.
“Take a fatherly good night, my dear,” said he, kissing me on the
forehead, “and so to rest. These are late hours for working and think-
ing. You do that for all of us, all day long, little housekeeper!”
I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened my
grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and
its care of me, and fell asleep.
We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came
to take leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was going
to China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be away
a long, long time.
I believe—at least I know—that he was not rich. All his widowed
mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his profes-

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sion. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very little

influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at the
service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness and
skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was seven
years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly seems to
belong to anything.
I think—I mean, he told us—that he had been in practice three or
four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three
or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was
bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going
away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a
pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among
those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it
had a high opinion of him.
When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with
him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black
eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a
long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of
Morgan ap-Kerrig—of some place that sounded like Gimlet—who
was the most illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose
relations were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his
life in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and
a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his
praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it,
Mewlinnwillinwodd.
Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great
kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would
remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below
it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in India
who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up
with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would suffice for the
descendant from such a line without birth, which must ever be the first
consideration. She talked so much about birth that for a moment I half
fancied, and with pain— But what an idle fancy to suppose that she
could think or care what mine was!
Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he
was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring

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the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guard-

ian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours—he called them
the very happy hours—he had passed with us. The recollection of them,
he said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always
treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after another—at least,
they did—and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada’s hand—and to
mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!
I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the
servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and
papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and
another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by
the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no
expectation of seeing!
“Why, Caddy, my dear,” said I, “what beautiful flowers!”
She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.
“Indeed, I think so, Esther,” replied Caddy. “They are the
loveliest I ever saw.”
“Prince, my dear?” said I in a whisper.
“No,” answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me
to smell. “Not Prince.”
“Well, to be sure, Caddy!” said I. “You must have two lovers!”
“What? Do they look like that sort of thing?” said Caddy.
“Do they look like that sort of thing?” I repeated, pinching her
cheek.
Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come
for half an hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would be
waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the
window, every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying
how they looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she
took me into my room and put them in my dress.
“For me?” said I, surprised.
“For you,” said Caddy with a kiss. “They were left behind by some-
body.”
“Left behind?”
“At poor Miss Flite’s,” said Caddy. “Somebody who has been very
good to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these
flowers behind. No, no! Don’t take them out. Let the pretty little

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things lie here,” said Caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand, “be-
cause I was present myself, and I shouldn’t wonder if somebody left
them on purpose!”
“Do they look like that sort of thing?” said Ada, coming laughingly
behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. “Oh, yes, indeed
they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing.
Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!”

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CHAPTER XVIII

Lady Dedlock

IT WAS NOT SO EASY as it had appeared at first to arrange for Richard’s

making a trial of Mr. Kenge’s office. Richard himself was the chief
impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr. Badger at
any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave him at
all. He didn’t know, he said, really. It wasn’t a bad profession; he
couldn’t assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked it as well as he
liked any other—suppose he gave it one more chance! Upon that, he
shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and some bones
and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information with great
rapidity. His fervour, after lasting about a month, began to cool, and
when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His vacilla-
tions between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer ar-
rived before he finally separated from Mr. Badger and entered on an
experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his way-
wardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to be
in earnest “this time.” And he was so good-natured throughout, and
in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult
indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him.
“As to Mr. Jarndyce,” who, I may mention, found the wind much
given, during this period, to stick in the east; “As to Mr. Jarndyce,”
Richard would say to me, “he is the finest fellow in the world, Esther!
I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his satisfaction, to take
myself well to task and have a regular wind-up of this business now.”
The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face
and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch
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and nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However, he

told us between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he
wondered his hair didn’t turn grey. His regular wind-up of the busi-
ness was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge’s about midsum-
mer to try how he liked it.
All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him
in a former illustration—generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully
persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to
say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about the
time of his going to Mr. Kenge’s, that he needed to have Fortunatus’
purse, he made so light of money, which
he answered in this way, “My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old
woman! Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or
whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days
ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger’s I should have been obliged to
spend twelve pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees.
So I make four pounds—in a lump—by the transaction!”
It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian
what arrangements should be made for his living in London while he
experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to Bleak
House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener
than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to settle
down at Mr. Kenge’s he would take some apartments or chambers
where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; “but,
little woman,” he added, rubbing his head very significantly, “he hasn’t
settled down there yet!” The discussions ended in our hiring for him,
by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house
near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all the money
he had in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this
lodging; and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any
purchase that he had in contemplation which was particularly unnec-
essary and expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and
made out that to spend anything less on something else was to save
the difference.
While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn’s was
postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of his lodging,
there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have gone with

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us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty of
his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel
the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently we went without him,
and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.
We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach
and had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture
had been all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took posses-
sion of it on his blue-eyed daughter’s birthday, but he seemed quite
relieved to think that it was gone. Chairs and table, he said, were
wearisome objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety
of expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked
them out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no
particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the
furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from
mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour
took one!
“The oddity of the thing is,” said Mr. Skimpole with a quickened
sense of the ludicrous, “that my chairs and tables were not paid for, and
yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible. Now,
that seems droll! There is something grotesque in it. The chair and
table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why should
my landlord quarrel with him? If I have a pimple on my nose which is
disagreeable to my landlord’s peculiar ideas of beauty, my landlord has
no business to scratch my chair and table merchant’s nose, which has
no pimple on it. His reasoning seems defective!”
“Well,” said my guardian good-humouredly, “it’s pretty clear that
whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay
for them.”
“Exactly!” returned Mr. Skimpole. “That’s the crowning point of
unreason in the business! I said to my landlord, ‘My good man, you
are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay for
those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner.
Have you no consideration for his property?’ He hadn’t the least.”
“And refused all proposals,” said my guardian.
“Refused all proposals,” returned Mr. Skimpole. “I made him busi-
ness proposals. I had him into my room. I said, ‘You are a man of
business, I believe?’ He replied, ‘I am,’ ‘Very well,’ said I, ‘now let us

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be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and paper, here are
wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your house for a consid-
erable period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until this unpleas-
ant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly and business-
like. What do you want?’ In reply to this, he made use of the figura-
tive expression—which has something Eastern about it—that he had
never seen the colour of my money. ‘My amiable friend,’ said I, ‘I
never have any money. I never know anything about money.’ ‘Well,
sir,’ said he, ‘what do you offer if I give you time?’ ‘My good fellow,’
said I, ‘I have no idea of time; but you say you are a man of business,
and whatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way with
pen, and ink, and paper—and wafers—I am ready to do. Don’t pay
yourself at another man’s expense (which is foolish), but be business-
like!’ However, he wouldn’t be, and there was an end of it.”
If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole’s child-
hood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the journey he
had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way
(including a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought
of paying for anything. So when the coachman came round for his
fee, he pleasantly asked him what he considered a very good fee in-
deed, now—a liberal one—and on his replying half a crown for a
single passenger, said it was little enough too, all things considered,
and left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him.
It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the
larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the
trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind
blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance! Late
in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to
alight from the coach—a dull little town with a church-spire, and a
marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and
a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men
sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade. After
the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along the
road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as England
could produce.
At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with an
open carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. He

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was over-joyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

“By heaven!” said he after giving us a courteous greeting. This a
most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an abomi-
nable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is
twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. The coachman
ought to be put to death!”
“Is he after his time?” said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he happened
to address himself. “You know my infirmity.”
“Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!” replied Mr. Boythorn,
referring to his watch. “With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel has
deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes. Deliberately! It
is impossible that it can be accidental! But his father—and his uncle—
were the most profligate coachmen that ever sat upon a box.”
While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed
us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all
smiles and pleasure.
“I am sorry, ladies,” he said, standing bare-headed at the carriage-
door when all was ready, “that I am obliged to conduct you nearly two
miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir Leicester
Dedlock’s park, and in that fellow’s property I have sworn never to set
foot of mine, or horse’s foot of mine, pending the present relations
between us, while I breathe the breath of life!” And here, catching my
guardian’s eye, he broke into one of his tremendous laughs, which
seemed to shake even the motionless little market-town.
“Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?” said my guardian as we
drove along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the roadside.
“Sir Arrogant Numskull is here,” replied Mr. Boythorn. “Ha ha
ha! Sir Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by the
heels here. My Lady,” in naming whom he always made a courtly
gesture as if particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel,
“is expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least surprised that she
postpones her appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have in-
duced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head
of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever
baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!”
“I suppose, said my guardian, laughing, “We may set foot in the park
while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?”

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“I can lay no prohibition on my guests,” he said, bending his head

to Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully
upon him, “except in the matter of their departure. I am only sorry
that I cannot have the happiness of being their escort about Chesney
Wold, which is a very fine place! But by the light of this summer day,
Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are
likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like an eight-
day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks in gor-
geous cases that never go and never went—Ha ha ha!—but he will
have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of his
friend and neighbour Boythorn!”
“I shall not put him to the proof,” said my guardian. “He is as
indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to the
honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a
view of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough
for me.”
“Well!” said Mr. Boythorn. “I am glad of it on the whole. It’s in
better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax defying
the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a
Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect
to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the
Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no doubt he is surprised that
I don’t. For he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the shallowest,
and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!”
Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled
our friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his
attention from its master.
It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among
the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of
the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woods
over which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings
were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the
smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flow-
ers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours,
how beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and
tower, and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twin-
ing among the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases,

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there was one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light
solidity and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around
it. To Ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influ-
ence. On everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old
oaks, fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in
the prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom
upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.
When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with
the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr.
Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on
a bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying be-
side him.
“That’s the housekeeper’s grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name,”
said, he, “and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. Lady
Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep her
about her own fair person—an honour which my young friend him-
self does not at all appreciate. However, he can’t marry just yet, even
if his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. In the
meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time
to—fish. Ha ha ha ha!”
“Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn?” asked Ada.
“Why, my dear Miss Clare,” he returned, “I think they may per-
haps understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say,
and I must learn from you on such a point—not you from me.”
Ada blushed, and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his comely
grey horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with ex-
tended arm and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.
He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a
lawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked
orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable
wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, indeed, everything
about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance. The old
lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the cherry-
trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the gooseberry-bushes
were so laden that their branches arched and rested on the earth, the
strawberries and raspberries grew in like profusion, and the peaches
basked by the hundred on the wall. Tumbled about among the spread

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nets and the glass frames sparkling and winking in the sun there were
such heaps of drooping pods, and marrows, and cucumbers, that
every foot of ground appeared a vegetable treasury, while the smell of
sweet herbs and all kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of
the neighbouring meadows where the hay was carrying) made the
whole air a great nosegay. Such stillness and composure reigned within
the orderly precincts of the old red wall that even the feathers hung
in garlands to scare the birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a
ripening influence that where, here and there high up, a disused nail
and scrap of list still clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had
mellowed with the changing seasons and that they had rusted and
decayed according to the common fate.
The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the gar-
den, was a real old house with settles in the chimney of the brick-
floored kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On one side of it
was the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where Mr. Boythorn main-
tained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whose duty was sup-
posed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately to ring a large bell
hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog established
in a kennel as his ally, and generally to deal destruction on the enemy.
Not content with these precautions, Mr. Boythorn had himself com-
posed and posted there, on painted boards to which his name was
attached in large letters, the following solemn warnings: “Beware of
the bull-dog. He is most ferocious. Lawrence Boythorn.” “The
blunderbus is loaded with slugs. Lawrence Boythorn.” “Man-traps and
spring-guns are set here at all times of the day and night. Lawrence
Boythorn.” “Take notice. That any person or persons audaciously pre-
suming to trespass on this property will be punished with the utmost
severity of private chastisement and prosecuted with the utmost rigour
of the law. Lawrence Boythorn.” These he showed us from the draw-
ing-room window, while his bird was hopping about his head, and he
laughed, “Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!” to that extent as he pointed them
out that I really thought he would have hurt himself.
“But this is taking a good deal of trouble,” said Mr. Skimpole in his
light way, “when you are not in earnest after all.”
“Not in earnest!” returned Mr. Boythorn with unspeakable warmth.
“Not in earnest! If I could have hoped to train him, I would have

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bought a lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose
upon the first intolerable robber who should dare to make an en-
croachment on my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent to come
out and decide this question by single combat, and I will meet him
with any weapon known to mankind in any age or country. I am
that much in earnest. Not more!”
We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning we
all set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering the
park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued a pleas-
ant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful trees
until it brought us to the church-porch.
The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with
the exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some of
whom were already in their seats, while others were yet dropping in.
There were some stately footmen, and there was a perfect picture of
an old coachman, who looked as if he were the official representative
of all the pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach.
There was a very pretty show of young women, and above them, the
handsome old face and fine responsible portly figure of the house-
keeper towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl of whom Mr. Boythorn
had told us was close by her. She was so very pretty that I might have
known her by her beauty even if I had not seen how blushingly con-
scious she was of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom I discov-
ered not far off. One face, and not an agreeable one, though it was
handsome, seemed maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, and in-
deed of every one and everything there. It was a Frenchwoman’s.
As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come,
I had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as earthy as a
grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church it was.
The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light that
made the faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in the
pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, and rendered
the sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous ringer was
working at the bell, inestimably bright. But a stir in that direction, a
gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces, and a blandly fero-
cious assumption on the part of Mr. Boythorn of being resolutely
unconscious of somebody’s existence forewarned me that the great

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people were come and that the service was going to begin.
“‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy
sight—’”
Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by the
look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner in which
those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their languor
and to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast mine down—
released again, if I may say so—on my book; but I knew the beauti-
ful face quite well in that short space of time.
And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me,
associated with the lonely days at my godmother’s; yes, away even to
the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little glass
after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seen this lady’s
face before in all my life—I was quite sure of it—absolutely certain.
It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired gentle-
man, the only other occupant of the great pew, was Sir Leicester
Dedlock, and that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But why her face
should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, in which I
saw scraps of old remembrances, and why I should be so fluttered
and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met her eyes, I could
not think.
I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome
it by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, I seemed
to hear them, not in the reader’s voice, but in the well-remembered
voice of my godmother. This made me think, did Lady Dedlock’s
face accidentally resemble my godmother’s? It might be that it did, a
little; but the expression was so different, and the stern decision which
had worn into my godmother’s face, like weather into rocks, was so
completely wanting in the face before me that it could not be that
resemblance which had struck me. Neither did I know the loftiness
and haughtiness of Lady Dedlock’s face, at all, in any one. And yet
I—I, little Esther Summerson, the child who lived a life apart and on
whose birthday there was no rejoicing—seemed to arise before my
own eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable
lady, whom I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but
whom I perfectly well knew I had never seen until that hour.
It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable agita-

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tion that I was conscious of being distressed even by the observation of

the French maid, though I knew she had been looking watchfully here,
and there, and everywhere, from the moment of her coming into the
church. By degrees, though very slowly, I at last overcame my strange
emotion. After a long time, I looked towards Lady Dedlock again. It
was while they were preparing to sing, before the sermon. She took no
heed of me, and the beating at my heart was gone. Neither did it revive
for more than a few moments when she once or twice afterwards glanced
at Ada or at me through her glass.
The service being concluded, Sir Leicester gave his arm with much
taste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock—though he was obliged to walk
by the help of a thick stick—and escorted her out of church to the
pony carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed,
and so did the congregation, whom Sir Leicester had contemplated
all along (Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn’s infinite delight) as if
he were a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.
“He believes he is!” said Mr. Boythorn. “He firmly believes it. So
did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!”
“Do you know,” pursued Mr. Skimpole very unexpectedly to Mr.
Boythorn, “it’s agreeable to me to see a man of that sort.”
“Is it!” said Mr. Boytborn.
“Say that he wants to patronize me,” pursued Mr. Skimpole. “Very
well! I don’t object.”
“I do,” said Mr. Boythorn with great vigour.
“Do you really?” returned Mr. Skimpole in his easy light vein.
“But that’s taking trouble, surely. And why should you take trouble?
Here am I, content to receive things childishly as they fall out, and
I never take trouble! I come down here, for instance, and I find a
mighty potentate exacting homage. Very well! I say ‘Mighty poten-
tate, here is my homage! It’s easier to give it than to withhold it.
Here it is. If you have anything of an agreeable nature to show me,
I shall be happy to see it; if you have anything of an agreeable na-
ture to give me, I shall be happy to accept it.’ Mighty potentate
replies in effect, ‘This is a sensible fellow. I find him accord with
my digestion and my bilious system. He doesn’t impose upon me
the necessity of rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points
outward. I expand, I open, I turn my silver lining outward like

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Milton’s cloud, and it’s more agreeable to both of us.’ That’s my

view of such things, speaking as a child!”
“But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow,” said
Mr. Boythorn, “where there was the opposite of that fellow—or of
this fellow. How then?”
“How then?” said Mr. Skimpole with an appearance of the utmost
simplicity and candour. “Just the same then! I should say, ‘My es-
teemed Boythorn’—to make you the personification of our imaginary
friend—’my esteemed Boythorn, you object to the mighty potentate?
Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in the social system is to
be agreeable; I take it that everybody’s business in the social system is to
be agreeable. It’s a system of harmony, in short. Therefore if you ob-
ject, I object. Now, excellent Boythorn, let us go to dinner!’”
“But excellent Boythorn might say,” returned our host, swelling
and growing very red, “I’ll be—”
“I understand,” said Mr. Skimpole. “Very likely he would.”
“—if I will go to dinner!” cried Mr. Boythorn in a violent burst
and stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. “And he would
probably add, ‘Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. Harold
Skimpole?’”
“To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know,” he returned
in his gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, “‘Upon my
life I have not the least idea! I don’t know what it is you call by that
name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess it and find it
comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate you heartily. But
I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a mere child, and I lay
no claim to it, and I don’t want it!’ So, you see, excellent Boythorn
and I would go to dinner after all!”
This was one of many little dialogues between them which I always
expected to end, and which I dare say would have ended under other
circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host. But he
had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible position as our
entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerely at and with Mr.
Skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long,
that matters never went beyond this point. Mr. Skimpole, who always
seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate ground, then be-
took himself to beginning some sketch in the park which be never fin-

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ished, or to playing fragments of airs on the piano, or to singing scraps of

songs, or to lying down on his back under a tree and looking at the
sky—which he couldn’t help thinking, he said, was what he was meant
for; it suited him so exactly.
“Enterprise and effort,” he would say to us (on his back), are delight-
ful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the deepest sympa-
thy with them. I lie in a shady place like this and think of adventurous
spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating to the heart of the Torrid
Zone with admiration. Mercenary creatures ask, ‘What is the use of a
man’s going to the North Pole? What good does it do?’ I can’t say; but,
for anything I can say, he may go for the purpose—though he don’t
know it—of employing my thoughts as I lie here. Take an extreme
case. Take the case of the slaves on American plantations. I dare say they
are worked hard, I dare say they don’t altogether like it. I dare say theirs
is an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people the land-
scape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the
pleasanter objects of their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and
I shouldn’t wonder if it were!”
I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of
Mrs. Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they
presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could
understand, they rarely presented themselves at all.
The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating
of my heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue
that to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among
the transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of
the shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and
the air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delight-
ful. We had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year’s leaves,
where there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped
off. Seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported
by thousands of natural columns,
the whitened stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made so radiant
by its contrast with the shade in which we sat and made so precious
by the arched perspective through which we saw it that it was like a
glimpse of the better land. Upon the Saturday we sat here, Mr.
Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard thunder muttering in the dis-

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tance and felt the large raindrops rattle through the leaves.
The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm
broke so suddenly—upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot—that
before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and light-
ning were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as
if every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a time for stand-
ing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the
moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two broad-
staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper’s lodge
which was close at hand. We had often noticed the dark beauty of
this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy clus-
tered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we had
once seen the keeper’s dog dive down into the fern as if it were water.
The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we
only clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shel-
ter there and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows
were all thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching
the storm. It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the
trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear
the solemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking
with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are
encompassed, to consider how beneficent they are and how upon the
smallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured from all
this seeming rage which seemed to make creation new again.
“Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?”
“Oh, no, Esther dear!” said Ada quietly.
Ada said it to me, but I had not spoken.
The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard the
voice, as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the same
strange way. Again, in a moment, there arose before my mind innu-
merable pictures of myself.
Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival
there and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind
my chair with her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to
my shoulder when I turned my head.
“I have frightened you?” she said.
No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened!

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“I believe,” said Lady Dedlock to my guardian, “I have the pleasure

of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce.”
“Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed it
would, Lady Dedlock,” he returned.
“I recognized you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any local
disputes of Sir Leicester’s—they are not of his seeking, however, I
believe—should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to show
you any attention here.”
“I am aware of the circumstances,” returned my guardian with a
smile, “and am sufficiently obliged.”
She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed
habitual to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner,
though in a very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was beau-
tiful, perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, I thought, of being
able to attract and interest any one if she had thought it worth her
while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which she sat in the
middle of the porch between us.
“Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Le-
icester about and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to have it
in his power to advance in any way?” she said over her shoulder to
my guardian.
“I hope so,” said he.
She seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him.
There was something very winning in her haughty manner, and it
became more familiar—I was going to say more easy, but that could
hardly be—as she spoke to him over her shoulder.
“I presume this is your other ward, Miss Clare?”
He presented Ada, in form.
“You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote character,”
said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce over her shoulder again, “if you only
redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But present me,” and she turned full
upon me, “to this young lady too!”
“Miss Summerson really is my ward,” said Mr. Jarndyce. “I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case.”
“Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents?” said my Lady.
“Yes.”
“She is very fortunate in her guardian.”

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Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her and said I was
indeed. All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost expres-
sive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her shoulder again.
“Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr.
Jarndyce.”
“A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I saw you
last Sunday,” he returned.
“What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become
one to me!” she said with some disdain. “I have achieved that reputa-
tion, I suppose.”
“You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock,” said my guardian,
“that you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me.”
“So much!” she repeated, slightly laughing. “Yes!”
With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I know
not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than chil-
dren. So, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking at the
rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupy herself with her
own thoughts as if she had been alone.
“I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better
than you know me?” she said, looking at him again.
“Yes, we happened to meet oftener,” he returned.
“We went our several ways,” said Lady Dedlock, “and had little in
common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, I sup-
pose, but it could not be helped.”
Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon began
to pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the lightning ceased,
the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sun began to
glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we sat there, silently,
we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at a merry pace.
“The messenger is coming back, my Lady,” said the keeper, “with
the carriage.”
As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. There
alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the
Frenchwoman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the pretty
girl, the Frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girl con-
fused and hesitating.
“What now?” said Lady Dedlock. “Two!”

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“I am your maid, my Lady, at the present,” said the Frenchwoman.

“The message was for the attendant.”
“I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady,” said the pretty girl.
“I did mean you, child,” replied her mistress calmly. “Put that shawl
on me.”
She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty girl
lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood unnoticed,
looking on with her lips very tightly set.
“I am sorry,” said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, “that we are not
likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to send
the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly.”
But as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a grace-
ful leave of Ada—none of me—and put her hand upon his proffered
arm, and got into the carriage, which was a little, low, park carriage
with a hood.
“Come in, child,” she said to the pretty girl; “I shall want you. Go on!”
The carriage rolled away, and the Frenchwoman, with the wrap-
pers she had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where
she had alighted.
I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride
itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her re-
taliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She remained
perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the drive, and then,
without the least discomposure of countenance, slipped off her shoes,
left them on the ground, and walked deliberately in the same direc-
tion through the wettest of the wet grass.
“Is that young woman mad?” said my guardian.
“Oh, no, sir!” said the keeper, who, with his wife, was looking
after her. “Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good a head-
piece as the best. But she’s mortal high and passionate—powerful
high and passionate; and what with having notice to leave, and hav-
ing others put above her, she don’t take kindly to it.”
“But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?” said
my guardian.
“Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!” said the man.
“Or unless she fancies it’s blood,” said the woman. “She’d as soon
walk through that as anything else, I think, when her own’s up!”

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We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards. Peaceful as it
had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more so now, with a dia-
mond spray glittering all about it, a light wind blowing, the birds no longer
hushed but singing strongly, everything refreshed by the late rain, and the
little carriage shining at the doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver. Still,
very steadfastly and quietly walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the
landscape, went Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless, through the wet grass.

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CHAPTER XIX

Moving On

IT IS THE LONG VACATION in the regions of Chancery Lane. The good

ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed, iron-fas-
tened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing clippers are
laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, with a crew of ghostly
clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their pa-
pers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where. The courts
are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep. Westminster Hall
itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might sing, and a ten-
derer class of suitors than is usually found there, walk.
The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants’ Inn, and Lincoln’s Inn even
unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded
proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided stools
that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of Term
sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation. Outer
doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and parcels are to
be left at the Porter’s Lodge by the bushel. A crop of grass would grow in
the chinks of the stone pavement outside Lincoln’s Inn Hall, but that the
ticket-porters, who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there,
with their white aprons over their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up
and eat it thoughtfully.
There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a week
to sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns on his
circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats,
no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely a close-shaved gentle-

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man in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judi-
cial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays from the
judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he comes along
and drinks iced ginger-beer!
The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. How
England can get on through four long summer months without its
bar—which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only le-
gitimate triumph in prosperity—is beside the question; assuredly that
shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. The learned
gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the unprec-
edented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the oppo-
site party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing infinitely
better than might be expected in Switzerland. The learned gentle-
man who does the withering business and who blights all opponents
with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a French watering-
place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the smallest
provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks. The very learned
gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery complex-
ion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in knotty
arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with le-
gal “chaff,” inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the initi-
ated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity and dust,
about Constantinople. Other dispersed
fragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canals
of Venice, at the second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of Ger-
many, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the English coast. Scarcely
one is to be encountered in the deserted region of Chancery Lane. If
such a lonely member of the bar do flit across the waste and come
upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of
his anxiety, they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades.
It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the young
clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees, pine
for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or Gravesend.
All the middle-aged clerks think their families too large. All the un-
owned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court and pant about stair-
cases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of aggrava-
tion. All the blind men’s dogs in the streets draw their masters against

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pumps or trip them over buckets. A shop with a sun-blind, and a

watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish in the window,
is a sanctuary. Temple Bar gets so hot that it is, to the adjacent Strand
and Fleet Street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmer-
ing all night.
There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be
cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in dull-
ness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those retire-
ments seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook’s court, it is so hot that the people
turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the pavement—
Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his cat (who
never is too hot) by his side. The Sol’s Arms has discontinued the
Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little Swills is engaged at
the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out in quite an
innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile complexion
calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of the most
fastidious mind.
Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of
rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long vaca-
tion. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, is
sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a sympathetic and
contemplative man, but also in his business as a law-stationer afore-
said. He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn and in the Rolls
Yard during the long vacation than at other seasons, and he says to the
two ‘prentices, what a thing it is in such hot weather to think that you
live in an island with the sea a-rolling and a-bowling right round you.
Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present after-
noon in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more.
From Mr. Chadband’s being much given to describe himself, both
verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by
strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he
expresses it, “in the ministry.” Mr. Chadband is attached to no par-
ticular denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have
nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects
as to render his volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent

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on his conscience; but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is of

the number. Mrs. Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward
by the vessel, Chadband; and her attention was attracted to that Bark
A 1 when she was something flushed by the hot weather.
“My little woman,” says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in Staple
Inn, “likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!”
So Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the
handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the
gift of holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little
drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, the
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth,
the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision made
of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin slices of
ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows of ancho-
vies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to
be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. For Chadband
is rather a consuming vessel—the persecutors say a gorging vessel—
and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remark-
ably well.
Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations when
they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his
hand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, “At what time did you expect Mr. and
Mrs. Chadband, my love?”
“At six,” says Mrs. Snagsby.
Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that “it’s gone that.”
“Perhaps you’d like to begin without them,” is Mrs. Snagsby’s re-
proachful remark.
Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he
says, with his cough of mildness, “No, my dear, no. I merely named
the time.”
“What’s time,” says Mrs. Snagsby, “to eternity?”
“Very true, my dear,” says Mr. Snagsby. “Only when a person lays
in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view—perhaps—more to
time. And when a time is named for having tea, it’s better to come
up to it.”
“To come up to it!” Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. “Up to it!
As if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!”

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“Not at all, my dear,” says Mr. Snagsby.

Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window,
comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular
ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that
Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the
inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is ad-
monished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her
patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much
discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)
by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to an-
nounce “Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay,
whatsername!” and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.
Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs. Chadband
is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadband moves softly and
cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright. He is
very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were inconvenient to
him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a perspiration about the
head, and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering
a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them.
“My friends,” says Mr. Chadband, “peace be on this house! On the
master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and
on the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is
peace? Is it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and
beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh, yes! Therefore,
my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours.”
In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr.
Snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well
received.
“Now, my friends,” proceeds Mr. Chadband, “since I am upon
this theme—”
Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice and
without removing her eyes from Chadband, says with dreadful dis-
tinctness, “Go away!”
“Now, my friends,” says Chadband, “since I am upon this theme,
and in my lowly path improving it—”
Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur “one thousing seven

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 Dickens

hundred and eighty-two.” The spectral voice repeats more solemnly,

“Go away!”
“Now, my friends,” says Mr. Chadband, “we will inquire in a spirit
of love—”
Still Guster reiterates “one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two.”
Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed
to be persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile,
says, “Let us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!”
“One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir.
Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for,” says Guster,
breathless.
“For?” returns Mrs. Chadband. “For his fare!”
Guster replied that “he insistes on one and eightpence or on
summonsizzing the party.” Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets
the tumult by lifting up his hand.
“My friends,” says he, “I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. It
is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought not to
murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!”
While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Snagsby,
as who should say, “You hear this apostle!” and while Mr. Chadband
glows with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money.
It is Mr. Chadband’s habit—it is the head and front of his preten-
sions indeed—to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the
smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions.
“My friends,” says Chadband, “eightpence is not much; it might justly
have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown. O
let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!”
With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract
in verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair,
lifts up his admonitory hand.
“My friends,” says he, “what is this which we now behold as being
spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my
friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends? Be-
cause we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but
of the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We
cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?”

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Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to

observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, “No wings.” But is im-
mediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.
“I say, my friends,” pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr. Snagsby’s suggestion, “why can we not fly? Is it be-
cause we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, my friends,
without strength? We could not. What should we do without
strength, my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees
would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come
to the ground. Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of
view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs? Is it,”
says Chadband, glancing over the table, “from bread in various forms,
from butter which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto
us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham,
from tongue, from sausage, and from such like? It is. Then let us
partake of the good things which are set before us!”
The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband’s piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after this
fashion. But this can only be received as a proof of their determination
to persecute, since it must be within everybody’s experience that the
Chadband style of oratory is widely received and much admired.
Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down
at Mr. Snagsby’s table and lays about him prodigiously. The conversion
of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned ap-
pears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this exem-
plary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as
always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or other large factory
for the production of that article on a wholesale scale. On the present
evening of the long vacation, in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, he does
such a powerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quite
full when the works cease.
At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never
recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impos-
sible means of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt—
among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly perform-
ing clashing military music on Mr. Chadband’s head with plates, and
afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins—at which period

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of the entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted.

“And being wanted in the—not to put too fine a point upon it—
in the shop,” says Mr. Snagsby, rising, “perhaps this good company
will excuse me for half a minute.”
Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two ‘prentices intently
contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the
arm.
“Why, bless my heart,” says Mr. Snagsby, “what’s the matter!”
“This boy,” says the constable, “although he’s repeatedly told to,
won’t move on—”
“I’m always a-moving on, sar, cries the boy, wiping away his grimy
tears with his arm. “I’ve always been a-moving and a-moving on,
ever since I was born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I
do move!”
“He won’t move on,” says the constable calmly, with a slight pro-
fessional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his stiff
stock, “although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and therefore I
am obliged to take him into custody. He’s as obstinate a young
gonoph as I know. He won’t move on.”
“Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!” cries the boy, clutching quite
desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of Mr.
Snagsby’s passage.
“Don’t you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work
of you!” says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. “My in-
structions are that you are to move on. I have told you so five hun-
dred times.”
“But where?” cries the boy.
“Well! Really, constable, you know,” says Mr. Snagsby wistfully,
and coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt,
“really, that does seem a question. Where, you know?”
“My instructions don’t go to that,” replies the constable. “My in-
structions are that this boy is to move on.”
Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that the
great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years in
this business to set you the example of moving on. The one grand
recipe remains for you—the profound philosophical prescription—
the be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth. Move

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on! You are by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can’t at
all agree about that. Move on!
Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all
indeed, but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thorough-
fare in any direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and Mrs.
Snagsby, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs. Guster
having never left the end of the passage, the whole household are
assembled.
“The simple question is, sir,” says the constable, “whether you know
this boy. He says you do.”
Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, “No he don’t!”
“My lit-tle woman!” says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the staircase. “My
love, permit me! Pray have a moment’s patience, my dear. I do know
something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can’t say that
there’s any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable.” To whom the
law-stationer relates his Joful and woful experience, suppressing the
half-crown fact.
“Well!” says the constable, “so far, it seems, he had grounds for what
he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said you
knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was
acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if
I’d call and make the inquiry, he’d appear. The young man don’t seem
inclined to keep his word, but— Oh! Here is the young man!”
Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby and touches his hat
with the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.
“I was strolling away from the office just now when I found this
row going on,” says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationer, “and as your
name was mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should be
looked into.”
“It was very good-natured of you, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, “and I am
obliged to you.” And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience, again
suppressing the half-crown fact.
“Now, I know where you live,” says the constable, then, to Jo.
“You live down in Tom-all-Alone’s. That’s a nice innocent place to
live in, ain’t it?”
“I can’t go and live in no nicer place, sir,” replies Jo. “They
wouldn’t have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice innocent

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place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such
a reg’lar one as me!”
“You are very poor, ain’t you?” says the constable.
“Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin’ral,” replies Jo. “I leave you
to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him,” says the
constable, producing them to the company, “in only putting my
hand upon him!”
“They’re wot’s left, Mr. Snagsby,” says Jo, “out of a sov-ring as wos
give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to my
crossin one night and asked to be showd this ‘ere ouse and the ouse
wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground wot
he’s berrid in. She ses to me she ses ‘are you the boy at the inkwhich?’
she ses. I ses ‘yes’ I ses. She ses to me she ses ‘can you show me all them
places?’ I ses ‘yes I can’ I ses. And she ses to me ‘do it’ and I dun it and
she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it. And I an’t had much of the sov’ring
neither,” says Jo, with dirty tears, “fur I had to pay five bob, down in
Tom-all-Alone’s, afore they’d square it fur to give me change, and then
a young man he thieved another five while I was asleep and another
boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he stood drains round with
a lot more on it.”
“You don’t expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the
sovereign, do you?” says the constable, eyeing him aside with inef-
fable disdain.
“I don’t know as I do, sir,” replies Jo. “I don’t expect nothink
at all, sir, much, but that’s the true hist’ry on it.”
“You see what he is!” the constable observes to the audience. “Well,
Mr. Snagsby, if I don’t lock him up this time, will you engage for his
moving on?”
“No!” cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs.
“My little woman!” pleads her husband. “Constable, I have no
doubt he’ll move on. You know you really must do it,” says Mr.
Snagsby.
“I’m everyways agreeable, sir,” says the hapless Jo.
“Do it, then,” observes the constable. “You know what you have
got to do. Do it! And recollect you won’t get off so easy next time.
Catch hold of your money. Now, the sooner you’re five mile off, the
better for all parties.”

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Bleak House

With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun as
a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good
afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook’s Court perform slow mu-
sic for him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-
bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation.
Now, Jo’s improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign
has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr.
Guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who
has been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation,
takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular cross-exami-
nation of the witness, which is found so interesting by the ladies that
Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs and drink a cup of
tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of the tea-table, consequent
on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy yielding his assent to this
proposal, Jo is requested to follow into the drawing-room doorway,
where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as a witness, patting him into
this shape, that shape, and the other shape like a butterman dealing
with so much butter, and worrying him according to the best mod-
els. Nor is the examination unlike many such model displays, both
in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its being lengthy, for Mr.
Guppy is sensible of his talent, and Mrs. Snagsby feels not only that
it gratifies her inquisitive disposition, but that it lifts her husband’s
establishment higher up in the law. During the progress of this keen
encounter, the vessel Chadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade,
gets aground and waits to be floated off.
“Well!” says Mr. Guppy. “Either this boy sticks to it like
cobbler’s-wax or there is something out of the common here that
beats anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy’s.”
Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, “You don’t
say so!”
“For years!” replied Mrs. Chadband.
“Has known Kenge and Carboy’s office for years,” Mrs. Snagsby
triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. “Mrs. Chadband—this
gentleman’s wife—Reverend Mr. Chadband.”
“Oh, indeed!” says Mr. Guppy.
“Before I married my present husband,” says Mrs. Chadband.
“Was you a party in anything, ma’am?” says Mr. Guppy, transfer-
ring his cross-examination.
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 Dickens

“No.”
“Not a party in anything, ma’am?” says Mr. Guppy.
Mrs. Chadband shakes her head.
“Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in
something, ma’am?” says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to
model his conversation on forensic principles.
“Not exactly that, either,” replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the
joke with a hard-favoured smile.
“Not exactly that, either!” repeats Mr. Guppy. “Very good. Pray,
ma’am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transac-
tions (we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge and
Carboy’s office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Take
time, ma’am. We shall come to it presently. Man or woman, ma’am?”
“Neither,” says Mrs. Chadband as before.
“Oh! A child!” says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs.
Snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on Brit-
ish jurymen. “Now, ma’am, perhaps you’ll have the kindness to tell
us what child.”
“You have got it at last, sir,” says Mrs. Chadband with another
hard-favoured smile. “Well, sir, it was before your time, most likely,
judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a child named
Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs. Kenge and
Carboy.”
“Miss Summerson, ma’am!” cries Mr. Guppy, excited.
“I call her Esther Summerson,” says Mrs. Chadband with auster-
ity. “There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It was Esther.
‘Esther, do this! Esther, do that!’ and she was made to do it.”
“My dear ma’am,” returns Mr. Guppy, moving across the small
apartment, “the humble individual who now addresses you received
that young lady in London when she first came here from the estab-
lishment to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the pleasure
of taking you by the hand.”
Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accus-
tomed signal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with his
pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers “Hush!”
“My friends,” says Chadband, “we have partaken in moderation”
(which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) “of the

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comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live upon
the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may
it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it pro-
ceed, may it press forward! But, my friends, have we partaken of
any-hing else? We have. My friends, of what else have we partaken?
Of spiritual profit? Yes. From whence have we derived that spiritual
profit? My young friend, stand forth!”
Jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch
forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent
Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.
“My young friend,” says Chadband, “you are to us a pearl, you are
to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And why,
my young friend?”
“I don’t know,” replies Jo. “I don’t know nothink.”
“My young friend,” says Chadband, “it is because you know noth-
ing that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my young
friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air? No. A fish
of the sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. A
human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And why glorious, my
young friend? Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of
wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which
I now deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or
a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

O running stream of sparkling joy

To be a soaring human boy!

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend?

No. Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? Because you
are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity,
because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of
bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in a spirit of
love, inquire.”
At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have
been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his
face and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses her
belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.

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“My friends,” says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding
itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, “it is right that I should
be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right that I should be
mortified, it is right that I should be corrected. I stumbled, on Sabbath
last, when I thought with pride of my three hours’ improving. The
account is now favourably balanced: my creditor has accepted a com-
position. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!”
Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.
“My friends,” says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion,
“I will not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come to-
morrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am
to be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like
the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that,
and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear
discourses?” (This with a cow-like lightness.)
Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms,
gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, and
Mrs. Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But
before he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some broken
meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.
So, Mr. Chadband—of whom the persecutors say that it is no
wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abomi-
nable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever
leave off, having once the audacity to begin—retires into private life
until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo moves on,
through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge, where he
finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast.
And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the
great cross on the summit of St. Paul’s Cathedral, glittering above a
red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy’s face one might
suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confu-
sion of the great, confused city—so golden, so high up, so far out of
his reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast,
the crowd flowing by him in two streams—everything moving on
to some purpose and to one end—until he is stirred up and told to
“move on” too.

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CHAPTER XX

A New Lodger

THE LONG VACATION SAUNTERS on towards term-time like an idle river

very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy
saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his
penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument into
his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any ill will, but
he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting
nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies
under too heavy contribution. He finds that nothing agrees with
him so well as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool, and
stab his desk, and gape.
Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken
out a shooting license and gone down to his father’s, and Mr. Guppy’s
two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Ri-
chard Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is
for the time being established in Kenge’s room, whereat Mr. Guppy
chafes. So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother,
in the confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and
lettuce in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly
good enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell
coming, he would have got it painted.
Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a
stool in Kenge and Carboy’s office of entertaining, as a matter of
course, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person
wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or where-

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fore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of
these profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infi-
nite pains to counterplot when there is no plot, and plays the deepest
games of chess without any adversary.
It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, to find
the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure can
come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third saunterer
through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy’s office, to wit, Young
Smallweed.
Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke
Chick Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy
is much doubted in Lincoln’s Inn. He is now something under fif-
teen and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to
entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the neighbourhood of
Chancery Lane and for her sake to have broken off a contract with
another lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. He is a
town-made article, of small stature and weazen features, but may be
perceived from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat.
To become a Guppy is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that
gentleman (by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him,
founds himself entirely on him. He is honoured with Mr. Guppy’s
particular confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep
wells of his experience, on difficult points in private life.
Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after
trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and
after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of
cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent
drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and
stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds for Mr.
Smallweed’s consideration the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state
of hopeless languor.
While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln’s
Inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk
below and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same

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time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed voice
cries, “Hip! Gup-py!”
“Why, you don’t mean it!” says Mr. Guppy, aroused. “Small! Here’s
Jobling!” Small’s head looks out of window too and nods to Jobling.
“Where have you sprung up from?” inquires Mr. Guppy.
“From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can’t stand it any
longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you’d lend me half a crown. Upon
my soul, I’m hungry.”
Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to
seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.
“I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare. I
want to get some dinner.”
“Will you come and dine with me?” says Mr. Guppy, throwing
out the coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.
“How long should I have to hold out?” says Jobling.
“Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,
returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.
“What enemy?”
“A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?”
“Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?” says
Mr Jobling.
Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares with
much earnestness that he “can’t stand it.”
“You shall have the paper,” says Mr. Guppy. “He shall bring it
down. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase
and read. It’s a quiet place.”
Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious
Smallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally
drops his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against
his becoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely
departure. At last the enemy retreats, and then Smallweed fetches
Mr. Jobling up.
“Well, and how are you?” says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with
him.
“So, so. How are you?”
Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling
ventures on the question, “How is she?” This Mr. Guppy resents as a

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liberty, retorting, “Jobling, there are chords in the human mind—”

Jobling begs pardon.
“Any subject but that!” says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment
of his injury. “For there are chords, Jobling—”
Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.
During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the
dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, “Re-
turn immediately.” This notification to all whom it may concern, he
inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tall hat at the angle
of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs his patron that
they may now make themselves scarce.
Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-
house, of the class known among its frequenters by the denomina-
tion slap-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty,
is supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible
Smallweed, of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird change-
ling to whom years are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of
centuries of owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he
must have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has
Smallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his
neck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows
all about it, whatever it is. In short, in his bringing up he has been so
nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp,
to account for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public
offices that his father was John Doe and his mother the only female
member of the Roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made
from a blue bag.
Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the
window of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant
baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the
spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there and defer
to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is
down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes
afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anything less than a full-
sized “bread” or proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the
very best cut. In the matter of gravy he is adamant.
Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread

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experience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day’s ban-
quet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats
the catalogue of viands and saying “What do you take, Chick?” Chick,
out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring “veal and ham and
French beans—and don’t you forget the stuffing, Polly” (with an
unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling
give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded.
Quickly the waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of
the Tower of Babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-
covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys
intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. Then,
amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a
clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine
which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for
more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the
cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and
steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmo-
sphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out
spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal
triumvirate appease their appetites.
Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might re-
quire. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The same phenom-
enon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams.
He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circum-
stances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby air.
His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and
ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in
theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. “Thank you, Guppy,” says
Mr. Jobling, “I really don’t know but what I will take another.”
Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.
Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his legs
and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment,
Mr. Guppy says, “You are a man again, Tony!”

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“Well, not quite yet,” says Mr. Jobling. “Say, just born.”
“Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer
cabbage?”
“Thank you, Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling. “I really don’t know but
what I will take summer cabbage.”
Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of
“Without slugs, Polly!” And cabbage produced.
“I am growing up, Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and
fork with a relishing steadiness.
“Glad to hear it.”
“In fact, I have just turned into my teens,” says Mr. Jobling.
He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves
as Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over the
ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a
veal and ham and a cabbage.
“Now, Small,” says Mr. Guppy, “what would you recommend
about pastry?”
“Marrow puddings,” says Mr. Smallweed instantly.
“Aye, aye!” cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. “You’re there, are
you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take a
marrow pudding.”
Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in a
pleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by
command of Mr. Smallweed, “three Cheshires,” and to those “three
small rums.” This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr.
Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of
the box to himself ), leans against the wall, and says, “I am grown up
now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.”
“What do you think, now,” says Mr. Guppy, “about—you don’t
mind Smallweed?”
“Not the least in the worid. I have the pleasure of drinking his
good health.”
“Sir, to you!” says Mr. Smallweed.
“I was saying, what do you think now,” pursues Mr. Guppy, “of
enlisting?”
“Why, what I may think after dinner,” returns Mr. Jobling, “is
one thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is

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another thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question,
What am I to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know,” says
Mr. Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary
fixture in an English stable. “Ill fo manger. That’s the French say-
ing, and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or
more so.”
Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion “much more so.”
“If any man had told me,” pursues Jobling, “even so lately as when
you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over
to see that house at Castle Wold—”
Mr. Smallweed corrects him—Chesney Wold.
“Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.)
If any man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the
present time as I literally find myself, I should have—well, I
should have pitched into him,” says Mr. Jobling, taking a little
rum-and-water with an air of desperate resignation; “I should
have let fly at his head.”
“Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,”
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. “You were talking about nothing else in
the gig.”
“Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling, “I will not deny it. I was on the wrong
side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round.”
That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their
being beaten round, or worked round, but in their “coming” round!
As though a lunatic should trust in the world’s “coming” triangular!
“I had confident expectations that things would come round and
be all square,” says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression
and perhaps of meaning too. “But I was disappointed. They never
did. And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to
people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles
of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. And
of any new professional connexion too, for if I was to give a reference
to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up. Then
what’s a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way and living
cheap down about the market-gardens, but what’s the use of living
cheap when you have got no money? You might as well live dear.”
“Better,” Mr. Smallweed thinks.

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“Certainly. It’s the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have
been my weaknesses, and I don’t care who knows it,” says Mr. Jobling.
“They are great weaknesses—Damme, sir, they are great. Well,” proceeds
Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, “what can a fellow
do, I ask you, but enlist?”
Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what,
in his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise
than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.
“Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy, “myself and our mutual friend
Smallweed—”
Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, “Gentlemen both!” and drinks.
“—Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once
since you—”
“Say, got the sack!” cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. “Say it, Guppy. You
mean it.”
“No-o-o! Left the Inn,” Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.
“Since you left the Inn, Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy; “and I have men-
tioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have lately thought of
proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?”
“I know there is such a stationer,” returns Mr. Jobling. “He was
not ours, and I am not acquainted with him.”
“He is ours, Jobling, and I am acquainted with him,” Mr. Guppy
retorts. “Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him through
some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of his in
private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer in argument.
They may—or they may not—have some reference to a subject which
may—or may not—have cast its shadow on my existence.”
As it is Mr. Guppy’s perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt
his particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the
human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall
by remaining silent.
“Such things may be,” repeats Mr. Guppy, “or they may not be.
They are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr.
and Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has,
in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all

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Tulkinghorn’s, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our mu-

tual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?”
Mr. Smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn.
“Now, gentlemen of the jury,” says Mr. Guppy, “—I mean, now,
Jobling—you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted. But
it’s better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want time.
There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You might live
through it on much worse terms than by writing for Snagsby.”
Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweed
checks him with a dry cough and the words, “Hem! Shakspeare!”
“There are two branches to this subject, Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy.
“That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy in his
encouraging cross-examination-tone, “I think you know Krook,
the Chancellor, across the lane?”
“I know him by sight,” says Mr. Jobling.
“You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?”
“Everybody knows her,” says Mr. Jobling.
“Everybody knows her. very well. Now it has been one of my
duties of late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from
it the amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence
of instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook and
into a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room
to let. You may live there at a very low charge under any name you
like, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He’ll ask no ques-
tions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me—before
the clock strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another thing, Jobling,”
says Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice and become
familiar again, “he’s an extraordinary old chap—always rummaging
among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to
read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a
most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don’t know but what it might be
worth a fellow’s while to look him up a bit.”
“You don’t mean—” Mr. Jobling begins.
“I mean,” returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with be-
coming modesty, “that I can’t make him out. I appeal to our mutual

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friend Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I

can’t make him out.”
Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, “A few!”
“I have seen something of the profession and something of life,
Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, “and it’s seldom I can’t make a man out,
more or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret
(though I don’t believe he is ever sober), I never came across. Now,
he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him,
and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smug-
gler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender—
all of which I have thought likely at different times—it might pay
you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I don’t see why you
shouldn’t go in for it, when everything else suits.”
Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows
on the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling.
After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their
pockets, and look at one another.
“If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!” says Mr. Guppy with a
sigh. “But there are chords in the human mind—”
Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-
water, Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony
Jobling and informing him that during the vacation and while things
are slack, his purse, “as far as three or four or even five pound goes,”
will be at his disposal. “For never shall it be said,” Mr. Guppy adds
with emphasis, “that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!”
The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that
Mr. Jobling says with emotion, “Guppy, my trump, your fist!” Mr.
Guppy presents it, saying, “Jobling, my boy, there it is!” Mr. Jobling
returns, “Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!” Mr. Guppy
replies, “Jobling, we have.”
They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,
“Thank you, Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take another glass
for old acquaintance sake.”
“Krook’s last lodger died there,” observes Mr. Guppy in an inci-
dental way.
“Did he though!” says Mr. Jobling.
“There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don’t mind that?”

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“No,” says Mr. Jobling, “I don’t mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It’s devilish odd that he need go and die at my
place!” Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several times returning to
it with such remarks as, “There are places enough to die in, I should
think!” or, “He wouldn’t have liked my dying at his place, I dare say!”
However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes
to dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr.
Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and
conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. He soon
returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home and that he
has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises,
sleeping “like one o’clock.”
“Then I’ll pay,” says Mr. Guppy, “and we’ll go and see him. Small,
what will it be?”
Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with
one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: “Four veals and
hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer
cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six
breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four half-
pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is eight
and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in half a
sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!”
Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed
dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to read
the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion to himself,
shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to run his eye over
the columns, he seems to have retired for the night and to have dis-
appeared under the bedclothes.
Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop,
where they find Krook still sleeping like one o’clock, that is to say,
breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite insen-
sible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. On the table
beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle and
a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor that even
the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut and
glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.
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“Hold up here!” says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the
old man another shake. “Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!”
But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a spiritu-
ous heat smouldering in it. “Did you ever see such a stupor as he falls into,
between drink and sleep?” says Mr. Guppy.
“If this is his regular sleep,” returns Jobling, rather alarmed,
“it’ll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking.”
“It’s always more like a fit than a nap,” says Mr. Guppy, shaking
him again. “Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fifty
times over! Open your eyes!”
After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his
visitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another,
and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched
lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before.
“He is alive, at any rate,” says Mr. Guppy. “How are you, my Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of
business.”
The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without the least
consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall and stares at them.
“How do you do, Mr. Krook?” says Mr. Guppy in some discom-
fiture. “How do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook.
I hope you are pretty well?”
The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or at
nothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his face against
the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it,
and then staggers down the shop to the front door. The air, the move-
ment in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these
things recovers him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur
cap on his head and looking keenly at them.
“Your servant, gentlemen; I’ve been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,
odd times.”
“Rather so, indeed, sir,” responds Mr. Guppy.
“What? You’ve been a-trying to do it, have you?” says the
suspicious Krook.
“Only a little,” Mr. Guppy explains.
The old man’s eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,

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examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down.

“I say!” he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. “Somebody’s
been making free here!”
“I assure you we found it so,” says Mr. Guppy. “Would you allow
me to get it filled for you?”
“Yes, certainly I would!” cries Krook in high glee. “Certainly I
would! Don’t mention it! Get it filled next door—Sol’s Arms—the
Lord Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know me!”
He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman,
with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out and hurries in
again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it in his arms like a
beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.
“But, I say,” he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting it,
“this ain’t the Lord Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. This is eighteenpenny!”
“I thought you might like that better,” says Mr. Guppy.
“You’re a nobleman, sir,” returns Krook with another taste, and his
hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. “You’re a baron
of the land.”
Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents
his friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the
object of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never
gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes
time to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of him.
“You’d like to see the room, young man?” he says. “Ah! It’s a good
room! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and
soda. Hi! It’s worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when
you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away.”
Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them
upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be and
also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up
from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded—for
the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he
is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous
claims on his professional consideration—and it is agreed that Mr.
Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle and Mr.
Guppy then repair to Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, where the per-
sonal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected and (more

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important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They
then report progress to the eminent Smallweed, waiting at the office
in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate, Mr. Guppy explaining
that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at
the play but that there are chords in the human mind which would
render it a hollow mockery.
On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly ap-
pears at Krook’s, by no means incommoded with luggage, and estab-
lishes himself in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shutters
stare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On the follow-
ing day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young
fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and a hammer of his
landlord and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains,
and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two tea-
cups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks,
like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.
But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work The Divini-
ties of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing la-
dies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined
with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent por-
traits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion among
the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the Galaxy
Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy dress, plays
every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of dog,
ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of
flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.
But fashion is Mr. Weevle’s, as it was Tony Jobling’s, weakness. To
borrow yesterday’s paper from the Sol’s Arms of an evening and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across
the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable consolation to
him. To know what member of what brilliant and distinguished
circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished feat of joining it
yesterday or contemplates the no less brilliant and distinguished feat
of leaving it to-morrow gives him a thrill of joy. To be informed

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what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is about, and means to be

about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy
rumours are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most
glorious destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelli-
gence to the Galaxy portraits implicated, and seems to know the
originals, and to be known of them.
For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices as
before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to
carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of evening
have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not visited by
Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likeness quenched in a dark hat,
he comes out of his dull room—where he has inherited the deal
wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink—and talks to Krook
or is “very free,” as they call it in the court, commendingly, with any
one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads the
court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins: firstly, that
if her Johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish ‘em to be identi-
cally like that young man’s; and secondly, “Mark my words, Mrs.
Perkins, ma’am, and don’t you be surprised, Lord bless you, if that
young man comes in at last for old Krook’s money!”

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CHAPTER XXI

The Smallweed Family

IN A RATHER ILL-FAVOURED and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though
one of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin
Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic
hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the
office and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little nar-
row street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all
sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old
forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed
smack of youth.
There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several
generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child,
until Mr. Smallweed’s grandmother, now living, became weak in her
intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With such
infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understand-
ing, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire
and into it, Mr. Smallweed’s grandmother has undoubtedly bright-
ened the family.
Mr. Smallweed’s grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a help-
less condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, limbs, but
his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the first four
rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. In
respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological
attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. Everything that Mr.
Smallweed’s grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first,
and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.

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The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of

Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting
species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired
into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan’s
god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it.
Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all
the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke some-
thing—something necessary to his existence, therefore it couldn’t have
been his heart—and made an end of his career. As his character was
not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a complete
course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the
Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an example of
the failure of education.
His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached
of “going out” early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp
scrivener’s office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman
improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and
developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the dis-
counting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as his
father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded
son, who in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late, be-
came the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins. Dur-
ing the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree,
the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has
strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amuse-
ments, discountenanced all story-books, fairy-tales, fictions, and
fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact
that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men
and women whom it has produced have
been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something
depressing on their minds.
At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below the
level of the street—a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only ornamented
with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron
tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical
representation of Grandfather Smallweed’s mind—seated in two black
horsehair porter’s chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the super-

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annuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours. On
the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is
Grandfather Smallweed’s usual occupation to watch, and projecting
from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for
roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the
venerable Mr. Smallweed’s seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a
drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount.
Beside him is a spare cushion with which he is always provided in
order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner
of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money—a
subject on which he is particularly sensitive.
“And where’s Bart?” Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart’s
twin sister.
“He an’t come in yet,” says Judy.
“It’s his tea-time, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“How much do you mean to say it wants then?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Hey?”
“Ten minutes.” (Loud on the part of Judy.)
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “Ten minutes.”
Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking
her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them
with money and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any
plumage, “Ten ten-pound notes!”
Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.
“Drat you, be quiet!” says the good old man.
The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only
doubles up Mrs. Smallweed’s head against the side of her porter’s
chair and causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaugh-
ter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion re-
coils on Mr. Smallweed himself, whom it throws back into his porter’s
chair like a broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being at
these times a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it,
does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone
the two operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken
up like a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster.

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Some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means,

he and the sharer of his life’s evening again fronting one another in
their two porter’s chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on
their post by the Black Serjeant, Death.
Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indu-
bitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the two kneaded into
one would hardly make a young person of average proportions, while
she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the
monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk
about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting
much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing circumstances,
however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff.
Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at
any game. She once or twice fell into children’s company when she
was about ten years old, but the children couldn’t get on with Judy,
and Judy couldn’t get on with them. She seemed like an animal of
another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides.
It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so
rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other
way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no
conception. If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her
way, modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously mod-
elled all its other expressions, on her
pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.
And her twin brother couldn’t wind up a top for his life. He knows
no more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he
knows of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog
or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so
much the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an
opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken
of Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and his emulation of that shin-
ing enchanter.
Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron
tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she
puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a
small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea
as it is served out and asks Judy where the girl is.

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 Dickens

“Charley, do you mean?” says Judy.

“Hey?” from Grandfather Smallweed.
“Charley, do you mean?”
This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuckling
as usual at the trivets, cries, “Over the water! Charley over the water,
Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the
water, over the water to Charley!” and becomes quite energetic about
it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently recovered
his late exertion.
“Ha!” he says when there is silence. “If that’s her name. She eats a
deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep.”
Judy, with her brother’s wink, shakes her head and purses up her
mouth into no without saying it.
“No?” returns the old man. “Why not?”
“She’d want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less,” says Judy.
“Sure?”
Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes
the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts it
into slices, “You, Charley, where are you?” Timidly obedient to the
summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her
hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of
them, appears, and curtsys.
“What work are you about now?” says Judy, making an ancient
snap at her like a very sharp old beldame.
“I’m a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss,” replies Charley.
“Mind you do it thoroughly, and don’t loiter. Shirking won’t do
for me. Make haste! Go along!” cries Judy with a stamp upon the
ground. “You girls are more trouble than you’re worth, by half.”
On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the
butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking
in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the
street-door.
“Aye, aye, Bart!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “Here you are, hey?”
“Here I am,” says Bart.
“Been along with your friend again, Bart?”
Small nods.
“Dining at his expense, Bart?”

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Small nods again.

“That’s right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning
by his foolish example. That’s the use of such a friend. The only use you
can put him to,” says the venerable sage.
His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he
might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink
and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces then
hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed
perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and Mr.
Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black
draught.
“Yes, yes,” says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of
wisdom. “That’s such advice as your father would have given you,
Bart. You never saw your father. More’s the pity. He was my true
son.” Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly
pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.
“He was my true son,” repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread
and butter on his knee, “a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago.”
Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with “Fif-
teen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen
hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!”
Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately
discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair,
and falls back in his own, overpowered. His appearance, after visiting
Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impres-
sive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally
twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin
rakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecations against
Mrs. Smallweed, and thirdly because the contrast between those pow-
erful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old
malignant who would be very wicked if he could. All this, however, is
so common in the Smallweed family circle that it produces no impres-
sion. The old gentleman is merely shaken and has his internal feathers
beaten up, the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him, and the
old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in
her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.
Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentle-

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man is sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he

mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the uncon-
scious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with noth-
ing on earth but the trivets. As thus: “If your father, Bart, had lived
longer, he might have been worth a deal of money—you brimstone
chatterer!—but just as he was beginning to build up the house that
he had been making the foundations for, through many a year—you
jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you
mean!—he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing
and a spare man, fule been a good son, and I think I meant to have
been one. But I wasn’t. I was a thundering bad son, that’s the long
and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody.”
“Surprising!” cries the old man.
“However,” Mr. George resumes, “the less said about it, the better
now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two
months’ interest! (Bosh! It’s all correct. You needn’t be afraid to order
the pipe. Here’s the new bill, and here’s the two months’ interest-
money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my
business.)”
Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and
the parlour while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two
black leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he se-
cures the document he has just received, and from the other takes
another similar document which hl of business care—I should like
to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if you make
such a confounded fool of yourself!—and your mother, who was a
prudent woman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood
after you and Judy were born—you are an old pig. You are a brim-
stone pig. You’re a head of swine!”
Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect
in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups
and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot for the little
charwoman’s evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in the
iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels
of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.
“But your father and me were partners, Bart,” says the old
gentleman, “and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is.

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It’s rare for you both that you went out early in life—Judy to the
flower business, and you to the law. You won’t want to spend it. You’ll
get your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy
will go back to the flower business and you’ll still stick to the law.”
One might infer from Judy’s appearance that her business rather lay
with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been appren-
ticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A close ob-
server might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother’s, when
their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, some little impa-
tience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion
that it is time he went.
“Now, if everybody has done,” says Judy, completing her
preparations, “I’ll have that girl in to her tea. She would ever
leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen.”
Charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes,
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In
the active superintendence of this young person, Judy Smallweed
appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the re-
motest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pounc-
ing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful,
evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached
by the oldest practitioners.
“Now, don’t stare about you all the afternoon,” cries Judy, shaking
her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance
which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, “but take your
victuals and get back to your work.”
“Yes, miss,” says Charley.
“Don’t say yes,” returns Miss Smallweed, “for I know what you girls
are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you.”
Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so
disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to
gormandize, which “in you girls,” she observes, is disgusting. Char-
ley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the
general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.
“See who it is, and don’t chew when you open it!” cries Judy.
The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the

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bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups
into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers the
eating and drinking terminated.
“Now! Who is it, and what’s wanted?” says the snappish Judy.
It is one Mr. George, it appears. Without other announcement or
ceremony, Mr. George walks in.
“Whew!” says Mr. George. “You are hot here. Always a fire, eh?
Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one.” Mr. George makes
the latter remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.
“Ho! It’s you!” cries the old gentleman. “How de do? How de do?”
“Middling,” replies Mr. George, taking a chair. “Your granddaugh-
ter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss.”
“This is my grandson,” says Grandfather Smallweed. “You ha’n’t
seen him before. He is in the law and not much at home.”
“My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his
sister. He is devilish like his sister,” says Mr. George,
laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last
adjective.
“And how does the world use you, Mr. George?” Grandfather
Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.
“Pretty much as usual. Like a football.”
He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking,
with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and pow-
erful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty
rough life. What is curious about him is that he sits forward on his chair
as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some dress or accoutre-
ments that he has altogether laid aside. His step too is measured and
heavy and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is
close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for
years familiar with a great moustache; and his manner of occasionally
laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same
effect. Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper
once upon a time.
A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family.
Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. It
is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure and their
stunted forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their

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little narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare
tones, are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the
middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands
upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he
remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family
and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.
“Do you rub your legs to rub life into ‘em?” he asks of Grandfa-
ther Smallweed after looking round the room.
“Why, it’s partly a habit, Mr. George, and—yes—it partly helps
the circulation,” he replies.
“The cir-cu-la-tion!” repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon
his chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. “Not much of that,
I should think.”
“Truly I’m old, Mr. George,” says Grandfather Smallweed. “But I
can carry my years. I’m older than her,” nodding at his wife, “and see
what she is? You’re a brimstone chatterer!” with a sudden revival of
his late hostility.
“Unlucky old soul!” says Mr. George, turning his head in that di-
rection. “Don’t scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor
cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold up,
ma’am. That’s better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr.
Smallweed,” says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from assisting
her, “if your wife an’t enough.”
“I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?” the old man
hints with a leer.
The colour of Mr. George’s face rather deepens as he replies, “Why
no. I wasn’t.”
“I am astonished at it.”
“So am I. I ought to have hands to Mr. George, who twists
it up for a pipelight. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every
up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before he releases them
from their leathern prison, and as he counts the money three times
over and requires Judy to say every word she utters at least twice, and is
as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to be, this
business is a long time in progress. When it is quite concluded, and not
before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it and answers
Mr. George’s last remark by saying, “Afraid to order the pipe? We are

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not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass
of cold brandy-and-water for Mr. George.”
The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them
all this time except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern
cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving
him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller to the
parental bear.
“And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?” says Mr. George
with folded arms.
“Just so, just so,” the old man nods.
“And don’t you occupy yourself at all?”
“I watch the fire—and the boiling and the roasting—”
“When there is any,” says Mr. George with great expression.
“Just so. When there is any.”
“Don’t you read or get read to?”
The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. “No, no. We
have never been readers in our family. It don’t pay. Stuff. Idleness.
Folly. No, no!”
“There’s not much to choose between your two states,” says the
visitor in a key too low for the old man’s dull hearing as he looks from
him to the old woman and back again. “I say!” in a louder voice.
“I hear you.”
“You’ll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear.”
“My dear friend!” cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both
hands to embrace him. “Never! Never, my dear friend! But my friend
in the city that I got to lend you the money—he might!”
“Oh! You can’t answer for him?” says Mr. George, finishing the
inquiry in his lower key with the words “You lying old rascal!”
“My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn’t trust
him. He will have his bond, my dear friend.”
“Devil doubt him,” says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a
tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy-
and-water, he asks her, “How do you come here! You haven’t got the
family face.”
“I goes out to work, sir,” returns Charley.
The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off,
with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head.

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“You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of

youth as much as it wants fresh air.” Then he dismisses her, lights his
pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed’s friend in the city—the one soli-
tary flight of that esteemed old gentleman’s imagination.
“So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?”
“I think he might—I am afraid he would. I have known him do
it,” says Grandfather Smallweed incautiously, “twenty times.”
Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing
over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers “Twenty
thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box,
twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty—” and is
then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this
singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face as
it crushes her in the usual manner.
“You’re a brimstone idiot. You’re a scorpion—a brimstone
scorpion! You’re a sweltering toad. You’re a chattering clattering broom-
stick witch that ought to be burnt!” gasps the old man, prostrate in
his chair. “My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?”
Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then at
the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by
the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his
chalr as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no
to shake all future power of cushioning out of him and shake him into
his grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough
to make his head roll like a harlequin’s, he puts him smartly down in
his chair again and adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub that the old
man winks with both eyes for a minute afterwards.
“O Lord!” gasps Mr. Smallweed. “That’ll do. Thank you, my dear
friend, that’ll do. Oh, dear me, I’m out of breath. O Lord!” And Mr.
Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend,
who still stands over him looming larger than ever.
The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair
and falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the philo-
sophical reflection, “The name of your friend in the city begins with
a D, comrade, and you’re about right respecting the bond.”
“Did you speak, Mr. George?” inquires the old man.
The trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his right

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elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while
his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a
martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr.
Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of
smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.
“I take it,” he says, making just as much and as little change in his
position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with a round,
full action, “that I am the only man alive (or dead either) that gets the
value of a pipe out of you?”
“Well,” returns the old man, “it’s true that I don’t see company,
Mr. George, and that I don’t treat. I can’t afford to it. But as you, in
your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition—”
“Why, it’s not for the value of it; that’s no great thing. It was a
fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money.”
“Ha! You’re prudent, prudent, sir!” cries Grandfather Smallweed,
rubbing his legs.
“Very. I always was.” Puff. “It’s a sure sign of my prudence
that I ever found the way here.” Puff. “Also, that I am what I am.”
Puff. “I am well known to be prudent,” says Mr. George, compos-
edly smoking. “I rose in life that way.”
“Don’t he down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet.”
Mr. George laughs and drinks.
“Ha’n’t you no relations, now,” asks Grandfather Smallweed with
a twinkle in his eyes, “who would pay off this little principal or who
would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend
in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names
would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha’n’t you no such
relations, Mr. George?”
Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, “If I had, I
shouldn’t trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings
in my day. It may be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who
has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people
that he never was a credit to and live upon them, but it’s not my sort.
The best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in
my opinion.”
“But natural affection, Mr. George,” hints Grandfather Smallweed.
“For two good names, hey?” says Mr. George, shaking his head and still

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composedly smoking. “No. That’s not my sort either.”

Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair
since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice in it
calling for Judy. That houri, appearing, shakes him up in the usual man-
ner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. For he
seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating his late
attentions.
“Ha!” he observes when he is in trim again. “If you could have
traced out the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making
of you. If when you first came here, in consequence of our advertise-
ment in the newspapers—when I say ‘our,’ I’m alluding to the adver-
tisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who em-
bark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as
sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance—if at that time
you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would have been the mak-
ing of you.”
“I was willing enough to be ‘made,’ as you call it,” says Mr. George,
smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of
Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of
the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by
her grandfather’s chair, “but on the whole, I am glad I wasn’t now.”
“Why, Mr. George? In the name of—of brimstone, why?” says
Grandfather Smallweed with a plain appearance of exasperation.
(Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs.
Smallweed in her slumber.)
“For two reasons, comrade.”
“And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the—”
“Of our friend in the city?” suggests Mr. George, composedly
drinking.
“Aye, if you like. What two reasons?”
“In the first place,” returns Mr. George, but still looking at Judy as
if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is
indifferent which of the two he addresses, “you gentlemen took me
in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold
to the saying ‘Once a captain, always a captain’) was to hear of some-
thing to his advantage.”
“Well?” returns the old man shrilly and sharply.

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“Well!” says Mr. George, smoking on. “It wouldn’t have been much
to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill
and judgment trade of London.”
“How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have
paid his debts or compounded for ‘em. Besides, he had taken us in.
He owed us immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled
him than had no return. If I sit here thinking of him,” snarls the old
man, holding up his impotent ten fingers, “I want to strangle him
now.” And in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the
unoffending Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of
her chair.
“I don’t need to be told,” returns the trooper, taking his pipe from
his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from following the
progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, “that
he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand
many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with
him when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon
him after he had run through everything and broken down every-
thing beneath him—when he held a pistol to his head.”
“I wish he had let it off,” says the benevolent old man, “and blown
his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!”
“That would have been a smash indeed,” returns the trooper coolly;
“any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days
gone by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to
lead to a result so much to his advantage. That’s reason number one.”
“I hope number two’s as good?” snarls the old man.
“Why, no. It’s more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must
have gone to the other world to look. He was there.”
“How do you know he was there?”
“He wasn’t here.”
“How do you know he wasn’t here?”
“Don’t lose your temper as well as your money,” says Mr. George,
calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “He was drowned long
before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship’s side. Whether
intentionally or accidentally, I don’t know. Perhaps your friend in the
city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed?” he adds
after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the
empty pipe.
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“Tune!” replied the old man. “No. We never have tunes here.”
“That’s the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it, so it’s
the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter—
excuse me, miss—will condescend to take care of this pipe for two
months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good evening, Mr.
Smallweed!”
“My dear friend!” the old man gives him both his hands.
“So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fall in
a payment?” says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.
“My dear friend, I am afraid he will,” returns the old man, looking
up at him like a pygmy.
Mr. George laughs, and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed and a
parting salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour,
clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes.
“You’re a damned rogue,” says the old gentleman, making a hid-
eous grimace at the door as he shuts it. “But I’ll lime you, you dog,
I’ll lime you!”
After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to
it, and again he and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours, two
unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant.
While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-
enough face. It is eight o’clock now, and the day is fast drawing in.
He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, decides to
go to Astley’s Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the
horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical
eye; disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of unskilful
swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. In the last
scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and conde-
scends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with the
Union Jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion.
The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again and makes
his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and Leicester
Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and
indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen,
footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of

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shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. Penetrating to the heart of this

region, he arrives by a court and a long whitewashed passage at a great
brick building composed of bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights,
on the front of which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted
GEORGE’S SHOOTING GALLERY, &c.
Into George’s Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are
gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for rifle-
shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and
all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these sports or
exercises being pursued in George’s Shooting Gallery to-night, which
is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man with a large head
has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the floor.
The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-
baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpow-
der and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light
before a glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. Not
far off is the strong, rough, primitive table with a vice upon it at
which he has been working. He is a little man with a face all crushed
together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance
that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown up, in the way of
business, at some odd time or times.
“Phil!” says the trooper in a quiet voice.
“All right!” cries Phil, scrambling to his feet.
“Anything been doing?”
“Flat as ever so much swipes,” says Phil. “Five dozen rifle and a
dozen pistol. As to aim!” Phil gives a howl at the recollection.
“Shut up shop, Phil!”
As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is lame,
though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his face he
has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which
want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather sinister appear-
ance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands that could pos-
sibly take place consistently with the retention of all the fingers, for
they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over. He appears to be
very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what
weight was. He has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his
shoulder against the wall and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold

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of instead of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round
the four walls, conventionally called “Phil’s mark.”
This custodian of George’s Gallery in George’s absence concludes
his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned out
all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out
from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These
being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his
own bed and Phil makes his.
“Phil!” says the master, walking towards him without his coat and
waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. “You
were found in a doorway, weren’t you?”
“Gutter,” says Phil. “Watchman tumbled over me.”
“Then vagabondizing came natural to you from the beginning.”
“As nat’ral as possible,” says Phil.
“Good night!”
“Good night, guv’ner.”
Phil cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to shoul-
der round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his mattress.
The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance and look-
ing up at the moon now shining through the skylights, strides to his
own mattress by a shorter route and goes to bed too.

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CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Bucket

ALLEGORY LOOKS PRETTY COOL in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, though the

evening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn’s windows are wide open,
and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable
characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January
with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long vaca-
tion weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches,
and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to
its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night.
Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn’s windows, and plenty
more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick every-
where. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way takes
fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust
in the eyes of Allegory as the law-or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one of its trusti-
est representatives—may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity.
In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth,
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of
the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-
grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the
best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the
Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in
chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak
or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a
candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and her-

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alded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely

back encircled by an earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from
which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that
blushes in the glass to find itself so famous and fills the whole room
with the fragrance of southern grapes.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, en-
joys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and
seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever,
he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that
twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening
woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and
perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history,
and his money, and his will—all a mystery to every one—and that one
bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who
lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then
suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too
monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer
evening and walked leisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and
uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining
man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids
him fill his glass.
“Now, Snagsby,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “to go over this odd story
again.”
“If you please, sir.”
“You told me when you were so good as to step round here last
night—”
“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but
I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person,
and I thought it possible that you might—just—wish—to—”
Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or
to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, “I must ask
you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.”
“Not at all,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “You told me, Snagsby, that
you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your in-

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tention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it’s not a
matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.”
“Well, sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby, “you see, my little woman is—
not to put too fine a point upon it—inquisitive. She’s inquisitive.
Poor little thing, she’s liable to spasms, and it’s good for her to have
her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it—I
should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether
it concerns her or not—especially not. My little woman has a very
active mind, sir.”
Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind
his hand, “Dear me, very fine wine indeed!”
“Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?” says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. “And to-night too?”
“Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in—not
to put too fine a point on it—in a pious state, or in what she consid-
ers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they
go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great
deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite
favourable to his style myself. That’s neither here nor there. My little
woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round
in a quiet manner.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. “Fill your glass, Snagsby.”
“Thank you, sir, I am sure,” returns the stationer with his cough of
deference. “This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!”
“It is a rare wine now,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It is fifty years old.”
“Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
might be—any age almost.” After rendering this general tribute to the
port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand
for drinking anything so precious.
“Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?” asks Mr.
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.
“With pleasure, sir.”
Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer re-
peats Jo’s statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On com-
ing to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with,
“Dear me, sir, I wasn’t aware there was any other gentleman present!”

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Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face be-

tween himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a per-
son with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he him-
self came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of the
windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked,
nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third person stands
there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his
hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built,
steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle-age.
Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his
portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but
his ghostly manner of appearing.
“Don’t mind this gentleman,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet
way. “This is only Mr. Bucket.”
“Oh, indeed, sir?” returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that
he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.
“I wanted him to hear this story,” says the lawyer, “because I have
half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelli-
gent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?”
“It’s very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and
he’s not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don’t object to go
down with me to Tom-all-Alone’s and point him out, we can have
him here in less than a couple of hours’ time. I can do it without Mr.
Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.”
“Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,” says the lawyer in ex-
planation.
“Is he indeed, sir?” says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.
“And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to
the place in question,” pursues the lawyer, “I shall feel obliged to you
if you will do so.”
In a moment’s hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips
down to the bottom of his mind.
“Don’t you be afraid of hurting the boy,” he says. “You won’t do
that. It’s all right as far as the boy’s concerned. We shall only bring
him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he’ll
be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It’ll be a good job for

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him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all
right. Don’t you be afraid of hurting him; you an’t going to do that.”
“Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!” cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And
reassured, “Since that’s the case—”
“Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby,” resumes Bucket, taking him
aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking
in a confidential tone. “You’re a man of the world, you know, and a
man of business, and a man of sense. That’s what you are.”
“I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” returns
the stationer with his cough of modesty, “but—”
“That’s what you are, you know,” says Bucket. “Now, it an’t neces-
sary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a
business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his
senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in
your business once)—it an’t necessary to say to a man like you that
it’s the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don’t
you see? Quiet!”
“Certainly, certainly,” returns the other.
“I don’t mind telling you,” says Bucket with an engaging appearance of
frankness, “that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt
whether this dead person wasn’t entitled to a little property, and whether
this female hasn’t been up to some games respecting that property, don’t
you see?”
“Oh!” says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.
“Now, what you want,” pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby
on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, “is that every per-
son should have their rights according to justice. That’s what you want.”
“To be sure,” returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.
“On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a—do you
call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle
used to call it.”
“Why, I generally say customer myself,” replies Mr. Snagsby.
“You’re right!” returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite
affectionately. “—On account of which, and at the same time to
oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in
confidence, to Tom-all-Alone’s and to keep the whole thing quiet
ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That’s about your

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intentions, if I understand you?”

“You are right, sir. You are right,” says Mr. Snagsby.
“Then here’s your hat,” returns his new friend, quite as intimate with
it as if he had made it; “and if you’re ready, I am.”
They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets.
“You don’t happen to know a very good sort of person of the name
of Gridley, do you?” says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend
the stairs.
“No,” says Mr. Snagsby, considering, “I don’t know anybody of
that name. Why?”
“Nothing particular,” says Bucket; “only having allowed his tem-
per to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some
respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have
got against him—which it’s a pity that a man of sense should do.”
As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that how-
ever quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is
going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose
in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the
very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a police-constable
on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable and his
guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come towards each other,
and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. In
a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young
man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat
curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches
him with his stick, upon which the young man, looking round, in-
stantly evaporates. For the most part Mr. Bucket notices things in
general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his
little finger or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a
good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt.
When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone’s, Mr. Bucket stops for a
moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull’s-eye from the constable
on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular
bull’s-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes
along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep

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in black mud and corrupt water—though the roads are dry elsewhere—
and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in Lon-
don all his life, can scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street
and its heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr.
Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going every
moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.
“Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby,” says Bucket as a kind of shabby
palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd.
“Here’s the fever coming up the street!”
As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of at-
traction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible faces
and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls, and with
occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits about
them until they leave the place.
“Are those the fever-houses, Darby?” Mr. Bucket coolly asks as he
turns his bull’s-eye on a line of stinking ruins.
Darby replies that “all them are,” and further that in all, for months
and months, the people “have been down by dozens” and have been
carried out dead and dying “like sheep with the rot.” Bucket observing
to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little poorly, Mr.
Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn’t breathe the dreadful air.
There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As
few people are known in Tom-all-Alone’s by any Christian sign, there
is much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the
Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or
the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are con-
flicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some think it
must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel is produced, but
is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby and his conduc-
tors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths
obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever they move,
and the angry bull’s-eyes glare, it fades away and flits about them up
the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as before.
At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough
Subject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough
Subject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and
the proprietress of the house—a drunken face tied up in a black bundle,

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and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is

her private apartment—leads to the establishment of this conclu-
sion. Toughy has gone to the doctor’s to get a bottle of stuff for a
sick woman but will be here anon.
“And who have we got here to-night?” says Mr. Bucket, opening
another door and glaring in with his bull’s-eye. “Two drunken men,
eh? And two women? The men are sound enough,” turning back
each sleeper’s arm from his face to look at him. “Are these your good
men, my dears?”
“Yes, sir,” returns one of the women. “They are our husbands.”
“Brickmakers, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing here? You don’t belong to London.”
“No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire.”
“Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?”
“Saint Albans.”
“Come up on the tramp?”
“We walked up yesterday. There’s no work down with us at present,
but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I
expect.”
“That’s not the way to do much good,” says Mr. Bucket, turning his head
in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.
“It an’t indeed,” replies the woman with a sigh. “Jenny and me
knows it full well.”
The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the
head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood
upright. It is offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly
in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of
table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the
candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a very young child.
“Why, what age do you call that little creature?” says Bucket. “It
looks as if it was born yesterday.” He is not at all rough about it;
and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely
reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in
pictures.
“He is not three weeks old yet, sir,” says the woman.
“Is he your child?”

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“Mine.”
The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in,
stoops down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.
“You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself,” says
Mr. Bucket.
“I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.”
“Ah, Jenny, Jenny!” says the other woman to her. “Better so. Much
better to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!”
“Why, you an’t such an unnatural woman, I hope,” returns Bucket
sternly, “as to wish your own child dead?”
“God knows you are right, master,” she returns. “I am not. I’d
stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any
pretty lady.”
“Then don’t talk in that wrong manner,” says Mr. Bucket, molli-
fied again. “Why do you do it?”
“It’s brought into my head, master,” returns the woman, her eyes
filling with tears, “when I look down at the child lying so. If it was
never to wake no more, you’d think me mad, I should take on so. I
know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers—warn’t I,
Jenny?—and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this
place. Look at them,” glancing at the sleepers on the ground. “Look
at the boy you’re waiting for, who’s gone out to do me a good turn.
Think of the children that your business lays with often and
often, and that you see grow up!”
“Well, well,” says Mr. Bucket, “you train him respectable, and he’ll
be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know.”
“I mean to try hard,” she answers, wiping her eyes. “But I have
been a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague,
of all the many things that’ll come in his way. My master will be
against it, and he’ll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his
home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much,
and ever so hard, there’s no one to help me; and if he should be
turned bad ‘spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I
should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an’t it likely I
should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as
Jenny’s child died!”
“There, there!” says Jenny. “Liz, you’re tired and ill. Let me
take him.”
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In doing so, she displaces the mother’s dress, but quickly readjusts it
over the wounded and bruised bosom where the aby has been lying.
“It’s my dead child,” says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses,
“that makes me love this child so dear, and it’s my dead child that
makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away
from her now. While she thinks that, I think what fortune would I
give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we
knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!”
As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy,
a step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the door-
way and says to Mr. Snagsby, “Now, what do you say to Toughy?
Will he do?”
“That’s Jo,” says Mr. Snagsby.
Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in a magic-
lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not
having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however, giving him the
consolatory assurance, “It’s only a job you will be paid for, Jo,” he
recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a little private
confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of breath.
“I have squared it with the lad,” says Mr. Bucket, returning, “and
it’s all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we’re ready for you.”
First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing
over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic
verbal direction that “it’s to be all took d’rectly.” Secondly, Mr.
Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for
an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo
by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him,
without which observance neither the Tough Subject nor any other
Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
These arrangements completed, they give the women good night
and come out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone’s.
By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit,
they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling, and
skulking about them until they come to the verge, where restoration
of the bull’s-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd, like a concourse
of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more.
Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to

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Mr. Snagsby’s mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to
Mr. Tulkinghorn’s gate.
As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn’s chambers being
on the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the
outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For a
man so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to
open the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds
a note of preparation.
Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and
so into Mr. Tulkinghorn’s usual room—the room where he drank his old
wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are,
and the room is tolerably light.
Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearing to
Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way
into this room, when Jo starts and stops.
“What’s the matter?” says Bucket in a whisper.
“There she is!” cries Jo.
“Who!”
“The lady!”
A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room,
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. The front of
the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their entrance
and remains like a statue.
“Now, tell me,” says Bucket aloud, “how you know that to be the
lady.”
“I know the wale,” replies Jo, staring, “and the bonnet, and the
gownd.”
“Be quite sure of what you say, Tough,” returns Bucket, narrowly
observant of him. “Look again.”
“I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look,” says Jo with starting
eyes, “and that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.”
“What about those rings you told me of?” asks Bucket.
“A-sparkling all over here,” says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left
hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from the
figure.
The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.
“Now, what do you say to that?” asks Bucket.

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Jo shakes his head. “Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like
that.”
“What are you talking of?” says Bucket, evidently pleased though,
and well pleased too.
“Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,” re-
turns Jo.
“Why, you’ll tell me I’m my own mother next,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Do you recollect the lady’s voice?”
“I think I does,” says Jo.
The figure speaks. “Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as you
like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this voice?”
Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. “Not a bit!”
“Then, what,” retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, “did you
say it was the lady for?”
“Cos,” says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken in his
certainty, “cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and
it an’t her. It an’t her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there’s
the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they’re wore the same way wot she
wore ‘em, and it’s her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and
hooked it.”
“Well!” says Mr. Bucket slightly, “we haven’t got much good out of
you. But, however, here’s five shillings for you. Take care how you
spend it, and don’t get yourself into trouble.” Bucket stealthily tells the
coins from one hand into the other like counters—which is a way he
has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill—and then
puts them, in a little pile, into the boy’s hand and takes him out to the
door, leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these
mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure. But on Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s coming into the room, the veil is raised and a suffi-
ciently good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression
is something of the intensest.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with
his usual equanimity. “I will give you no further trouble about this
little wager.”
“You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at
present placed?” says mademoiselle.
“Certainly, certainly!”

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“And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished

recommendation?”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.”
“A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.”
“It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.”
“Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.”
“Good night.”
Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr.
Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of
the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not
without gallantry.
“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.
“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There
an’t a doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on.
The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I
promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don’t
say it wasn’t done!”
“You have kept your word, sir,” returns the stationer; “and if I can
be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman
will be getting anxious—”
“Thank you, Snagsby, no further use,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I
am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.”
“Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.”
“You see, Mr. Snagsby,” says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to
the door and shaking hands with him over and over again, “what I
like in you is that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what
you are. When you know you have done a right thing, you put it
away, and it’s done with and gone, and there’s an end of it. That’s
what you do.”
“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby.
“No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t what you endeavour to
do,” says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in
the tenderest manner, “it’s what you do. That’s what I estimate in a
man in your way of business.”
Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so con-
fused by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being
awake and out—doubtful of the reality of the streets through which

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he goes—doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him.

He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive
of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to the po-
lice-station with official intelligence of her husband’s being made
away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through
every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as the little
woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!

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CHAPTER XXIII

Esther’s Narrative

WE CAME HOME FROM Mr. Boythorn’s after six pleasant weeks. We

were often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge
where we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper’s
wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at church on
Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and although sev-
eral beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influ-
ence on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whether it was
painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her or made me
shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of fear, and I
know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered back, as
they had done at first, to that old time of my life.
I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what this
lady so curiously was to me, I was to her—I mean that I disturbed
her thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way.
But when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and distant
and unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt
the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and unrea-
sonable, and I remonstrated with myself about it as much as I could.
One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn’s house,
I had better mention in this place.
I was walking in the garden with Ada and when I was told that
some one wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where
this person was waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had
cast off her shoes and walked through the wet grass on the day when
it thundered and lightened.
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“Mademoiselle,” she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-

eager eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and
speaking neither with boldness nor servility, “I have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so
amiable, mademoiselle.”
“No excuse is necessary,” I returned, “if you wish to speak to me.”
“That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the per-
mission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?” she said in a quick,
natural way.
“Certainly,” said I.
“Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I
have left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, so very
high. Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!” Her quickness antici-
pated what I might have said presently but as yet had only thought.
“It is not for me to come here to complain of my Lady. But I say she
is so high, so very high. I will not say a word more. All the world
knows that.”
“Go on, if you please,” said I.
“Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness. Ma-
demoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a young
lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good, accom-
plished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the honour of
being your domestic!”
“I am sorry—” I began.
“Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!” she said with an in-
voluntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. “Let me hope a
moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more retired
than that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this service
would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well! I
wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here. Good. I
am content.”
“I assure you,” said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of having
such an attendant, “that I keep no maid—”
“Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one
so devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would
be so true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, I wish
with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at present. Take
me as I am. For nothing!”
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She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of her.
Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she still
pressed herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though
always with a certain grace and propriety.
“Mademoiselle, I come from the South country where we are quick
and where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too high for
me; I was too high for her. It is done—past—finlshed! Receive me as
your domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more for you than
you figure to yourself now. Chut! Mademoiselle, I will—no matter,
I will do my utmost possible in all things. If you accept my service,
you will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and I
will serve you well. You don’t know how well!”
There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me
while I explained the impossibility of my engagmg her (without think-
ing it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so), which seemed
to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets of Paris in
the reign of terror.
She heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty
accent and in her mildest voice, “Hey, mademoiselle, I have received
my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere and seek what I
have not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?”
She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to take
note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. “I fear I sur-
prised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?” she said with a
parting curtsy.
I confessed that she had surprised us all.
“I took an oath, mademoiselle,” she said, smiling, “and I wanted
to stamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And I will!
Adieu, mademoiselle!”
So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a close.
I supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her no more;
and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures
until six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just now
by saying.
At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richard
was constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sunday
and remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes rode

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out on horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us and

rode back again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever and told us
he was very industrious, but I was not easy in my mind about him. It
appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. I could not find
that it led to anything but the formation of delusive hopes in
connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much sor-
row and ruin. He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told us,
and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he and
Ada were to take I don’t know how many thousands of pounds must
be finally established if there were any sense or justice in the Court of
Chancery—but oh, what a great IF that sounded in my ears—and
that this happy conclusion could not be much longer delayed. He
proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that side he had
read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the infatuation. He
had even begun to haunt the court. He told us how he saw Miss Flite
there daily, how they talked together, and how he did her little
kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her from his
heart. But he never thought—never, my poor, dear, sanguine Rich-
ard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such better things
before him—what a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth
and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged birds, and
her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.
Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or
did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east wind
and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict silence on the
subject. So I thought one day when I went to London to meet Caddy
Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in waiting for me at
the coach-office, that we might have a little talk together. I found him
there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in arm.
“Well, Richard,” said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with
him, “are you beginning to feel more settled now?”
“Oh, yes, my dear!” returned Richard. “I’m all right enough.”
“But settled?” said I.
“How do you mean, settled?” returned Richard with his gay laugh.
“Settled in the law,” said I.
“Oh, aye,” replied Richard, “I’m all right enough.”
“You said that before, my dear Richard.”

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“And you don’t think it’s an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it’s not.
Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?”
“Yes.”
“Why, no, I can’t say I am settling down,” said Richard, strongly
emphasizing “down,” as if that expressed the difficulty, “because one
can’t settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled state.
When I say this business, of course I mean the—forbidden subject.”
“Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?” said I.
“Not the least doubt of it,” answered Richard.
We walked a little way without speaking, and presently Richard
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: “My
dear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to heaven I were a more
constant sort of fellow. I don’t mean constant to Ada, for I love her
dearly—better and better every day—but constant to myself. (Some-
how, I mean something that I can’t very well express, but you’ll make
it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellow, I should have held on
either to Badger or to Kenge and Carboy like grim death, and should
have begun to be steady and systematic by this time, and shouldn’t
be in debt, and—”
“Are you in debt, Richard?”
“Yes,” said Richard, “I am a little so, my dear. Also, I have
taken rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now the
murder’s out; you despise me, Esther, don’t you?”
“You know I don’t,” said I.
“You are kinder to me than I often am to myself,” he returned.
“My dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled,
but how can I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinished house,
you couldn’t settle down in it; if you were condemned to leave every-
thing you undertook unfinished, you would find it hard to apply
yourself to anything; and yet that’s my unhappy case. I was born into
this unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, and it
began to unsettle me before I quite knew the difference between a
suit at law and a suit of clothes; and it has gone on unsettling me ever
since; and here I am now, conscious sometimes that I am but a worth-
less fellow to love my confiding cousin Ada.”
We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyes
and sobbed as he said the words.

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“Oh, Richard!” said I. “Do not be so moved. You have a noble

nature, and Ada’s love may make you worthier every day.”
“I know, my dear,” he replied, pressing my arm, “I know all that.
You mustn’t mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all this
upon my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to
you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes cour-
age. I know what the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it
doesn’t do it. I am too unsettled even for that. I love her most devot-
edly, and yet I do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day and
hour. But it can’t last for ever. We shall come on for a final hearing
and get judgment in our favour, and then you and Ada shall see what
I can really be!”
It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out
between his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to me than
the hopeful animation with which he said these words.
“I have looked well into the papers, Esther. I have been deep in
them for months,” he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in a
moment, “and you may rely upon it that we shall come out trium-
phant. As to years of delay, there has been no want of them, heaven
knows! And there is the greater probability of our bringing the mat-
ter to a speedy close; in fact, it’s on the paper now. It will be all right
at last, and then you shall see!”
Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Carboy
in the same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him when he intended
to be articled in Lincoln’s Inn.
“There again! I think not at all, Esther,” he returned with an effort.
“I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at Jarndyce and
Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst for the law and
satisfied myself that I shouldn’t like it.
Besides, I find it unsettles me more and more to be so constantly
upon the scene of action. So what,” continued Richard, confident
again by this time, “do I naturally turn my thoughts to?”
“I can’t imagine,” said I.
“Don’t look so serious,” returned Richard, “because it’s the best
thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It’s not as if I wanted a
profession for life. These proceedings will come to a termination,
and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a pursuit which is

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in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my tem-

porary condition—I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I natu-
rally turn my thoughts to?”
I looked at him and shook my head.
“What,” said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, “but the
army!”
“The army?” said I.
“The army, of course. What I have to do is to get a commission;
and—there I am, you know!” said Richard.
And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his
pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundred
pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he con-
tracted no debt at all within a corresponding period in the army—as
to which he had quite made up his mind; this step must involve a
saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in
five years, which was a considerable sum. And then he spoke so in-
genuously and sincerely of the sacrifice he made in withdrawing himself
for a time from Ada, and of the earnestness with which he aspired—
as in thought he always did, I know full well—to repay her love, and
to ensure her happiness, and to conquer what was amiss in himself,
and to acquire the very soul of decision, that he made my heart ache
keenly, sorely. For, I thought, how would this end, how could this
end, when so soon and so surely all his manly qualities were touched
by the fatal blight that ruined everything it rested on!
I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all the hope I
could not quite feel then, and implored him for Ada’s sake not to
put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard readily assented,
riding over the court and everything else in his easy way and drawing
the brightest pictures of the character he was to settle into—alas,
when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon him! We had a
long talk, but it always came back to that, in substance.
At last we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had appointed
to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of Newman
Street. Caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as soon as
I appeared. After a few cheerful words, Richard left us together.
“Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther,” said Caddy, “and got the
key for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, we

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can lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wanted to
see your dear good face about.”
“Very well, my dear,” said I. “Nothing could be better.” So Caddy,
after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she called it, locked
the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk round the garden
very cosily.
“You see, Esther,” said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little con-
fidence, “after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry with-
out Ma’s knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark respecting
our engagement—though I don’t believe Ma cares much for me, I
must say—I thought it right to mention your opinions to Prince. In
the first place because I want to profit by everything you tell me, and
in the second place because I have no secrets from Prince.”
“I hope he approved, Caddy?”
“Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you
could say. You have no idea what an opimon he has of you!”
“Indeed!”
“Esther, it’s enough to make anybody but me jealous,” said Caddy,
laughing and shaking her head; “but it only makes me joyful, for you
are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I ever can have, and
nobody can respect and love you too much to please me.”
“Upon my word, Caddy,” said I, “you are in the general conspiracy
to keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?”
“Well! I am going to tell you,” replied Caddy, crossing her hands
confidentially upon my arm. “So we talked a good deal about it, and
so I said to Prince, ‘Prince, as Miss Summerson—”
“I hope you didn’t say ‘Miss Summerson’?”
“No. I didn’t!” cried Caddy, greatly pleased and with the
brightest of faces. “I said, ‘Esther.’ I said to Prince, ‘As Esther is decid-
edly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed it to me, and always
hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so fond of
hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth to Ma
whenever you think proper. And I think, Prince,’ said I, ‘that Esther
thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more honourable
position altogether if you did the same to your papa.’”
“Yes, my dear,” said I. “Esther certainly does think so.”
“So I was right, you see!” exclaimed Caddy. “Well! This troubled

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Prince a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but
because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. Turveydrop; and
he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turveydrop might break his
heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting man-
ner or other if he made such an announcement. He feared old Mr.
Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a
shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop’s deportment is very beautiful, you
know, Esther,” said Caddy, “and his feelings are extremely sensitive.”
“Are they, my dear?”
“Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused my
darling child—I didn’t mean to use the expression to you, Esther,”
Caddy apologized, her face suffused with blushes, “but I generally
call Prince my darling child.”
I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on’
“This has caused him, Esther—”
“Caused whom, my dear?”
“Oh, you tiresome thing!” said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty
face on fire. “My darling child, if you insist upon it! This has caused
him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in
a very anxious manner. At last he said to me, ‘Caddy, if Miss
Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could be pre-
vailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I could do
it.’ So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind, besides,”
said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly, “that if you con-
sented, I would ask you afterwards to come with me to Ma. This is
what I meant when I said in my note that I had a great favour and a
great assistance to beg of you. And if you thought you could grant it,
Esther, we should both be very grateful.”
“Let me see, Caddy,” said I, pretending to consider. “Really, I think
I could do a greater thing than that if the need were pressing. I am at
your service and the darling child’s, my dear, whenever you like.”
Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, I be-
lieve, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as any
tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after another turn or
two round the garden, during which she put on an entirely new pair
of gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that she might
do no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, we went to
Newman Street direct.
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Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a not

very hopeful pupil—a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, a deep
voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama—whose case was certainly
not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we threw her
preceptor. The lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as discor-
dantly as possible; and when the little girl had changed her shoes and
had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was taken away.
After a few words of preparation, we then went in search of Mr.
Turveydrop, whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a
model of deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment—the only
comfortable room in the house. He appeared to have dressed at his
leisure in the intervals of a light collation, and his dressing-case, brushes,
and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about.
“Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby.”
“Charmed! Enchanted!” said Mr. Turveydrop, rising with his high-
shouldered bow. “Permit me!” Handing chairs. “Be seated!” Kissing
the tips of his left fingers. “Overjoyed!” Shutting his eyes and rolling.
“My little retreat is made a paradise.” Recomposing himself on the
sofa like the second gentleman in Europe.
“Again you find us, Miss Summerson,” said he, “using our little
arts to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by
the condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these times
(and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the
days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent—my patron, if I may
presume to say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trod-
den under foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in the smile of
beauty, my dear madam.”
I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took a
pinch of snuff.
“My dear son,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “you have four schools this
afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich.”
“Thank you, father,” returned Prince, “I will be sure to be
punctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for
what I am going to say?”
“Good heaven!” exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as Prince
and Caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. “What is this? Is
this lunacy! Or what is this?”

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 Dickens

“Father,” returned Prince with great submission, “I love this young

lady, and we are engaged.”
“Engaged!” cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa and shut-
ting out the sight with his hand. “An arrow launched at my brain by
my own child!”
“We have been engaged for some time, father,” faltered Prince, “and Miss
Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the fact to you and was
so very kind as to attend on the present occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young lady who
deeply respects you, father.”
Mr. Turveydrop uttered a groan.
“No, pray don’t! Pray don’t, father,” urged his son. “Miss
Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first
desire is to consider your comfort.”
Mr. Turveydrop sobbed.
“No, pray don’t, father!” cried his son.
“Boy,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “it is well that your sainted mother is
spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir, strike
home!”
“Pray don’t say so, father,” implored Prince, in tears. “It goes to
my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish and intention is
to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget our duty—
what is my duty is Caroline’s, as we have often said together—and
with your approval and consent, father, we will devote ourselves to
making your life agreeable.”
“Strike home,” murmured Mr. Turveydrop. “Strike home!” But
he seemed to listen, I thought, too.
“My dear father,” returned Prince, “we well know what little com-
forts you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will always be
our study and our pride to provide those before anything. If you will
bless us with your approval and consent, father, we shall not think of
being married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we ARE
married, we shall always make you—of course—our first consider-
ation. You must ever be the head and master here, father; and we feel
how truly unnatural it would be in us if
we failed to know it or if we failed to exert ourselves in every
possible way to please you.”
Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle and came

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upright on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiff cravat,
a perfect model of parental deportment.
“My son!” said Mr. Turveydrop. “My children! I cannot resist your
prayer. Be happy!”
His benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretched
out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respect and
gratitude) was the most confusing sight I ever saw.
“My children,” said Mr. Turveydrop, paternally encircling Caddy
with his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his right hand
gracefully on his hip. “My son and daughter, your happiness shall be
my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live with me”—
meaning, of course, I will always live with you—”this house is hence-
forth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. May you long
live to share it with me!”
The power of his deportment was such that they really were as
much overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering him-
self upon them for the rest of his life, he were making some munifi-
cent sacrifice in their favour.
“For myself, my children,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “I am falling into
the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the last
feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this weaving
and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to society and will
show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are few and simple.
My little apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet, my frugal
morning meal, and my little dinner will suffice. I charge your dutiful
affection with the supply of these requirements, and I charge myself
with all the rest.”
They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity.
“My son,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “for those little points in which
you are deficient—points of deportment, which are born with a man,
which may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated—
you may still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since the days
of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will not desert it now.
No, my son. If you have ever contemplated your father’s poor posi-
tion with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do noth-
ing to tarnish it. For yourself, Prince, whose character is different (we
cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be indus-
trious, earn money, and extend the connexion as much as possible.”
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“That you may depend I will do, dear father, with all my heart,”
replied Prince.
“I have no doubt of it,” said Mr. Turveydrop. “Your qualities are
not shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. And to
both of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the spirit of a
sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of casting, I
believe, some ray of light, take care of the establishment, take care of
my simple wants, and bless you both!”
Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallant, in honour of the
occasion, that I told Caddy we must really go to Thavies Inn at once if
we were to go at all that day. So we took our departure after a very loving
farewell between Caddy and her betrothed, and during our walk she was
so happy and so full of old Mr. Turveydrop’s praises that I would not
have said a word in his disparagement for any consideration.
The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows annoucing that
it was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier than
ever. The name of poor Mr. Jellyby had appeared in the list of bank-
rupts but a day or two before, and he was shut up in the dining-
room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bags, account-books,
and papers, making the most desperate endeavours to understand his
affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his comprehension,
for when Caddy took me into the dining-room by mistake and we
came upon Mr. Jellyby in his spectacles, forlornly fenced into a cor-
ner by the great dining-table and the two gentlemen, he seemed to
have given up the whole thing and to be
speechless and insensible.
Going upstairs to Mrs. Jellyby’s room (the children were all
screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), we
found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence, open-
ing, reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation of torn
covers on the floor. She was so preoccupied that at first she did not
know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious, bright-
eyed, far-off look of hers.
“Ah! Miss Summerson!” she said at last. “I was thinking of
something so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to see you.
Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well?”
I hoped in return that Mr. Jellyby was quite well.

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“Why, not quite, my dear,” said Mrs. Jellyby in the calmest man-
ner. “He has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of
spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no time to
think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred and
seventy families, Miss Summerson, averaging five persons in each,
either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger.”
I thought of the one family so near us who were neither gone nor
going to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered how she could be
so placid.
“You have brought Caddy back, I see,” observed Mrs. Jellyby with
a glance at her daughter. “It has become quite a novelty to see her
here. She has almost deserted her old employment and in fact obliges
me to employ a boy.”
“I am sure, Ma—” began Caddy.
“Now you know, Caddy,” her mother mildly interposed, “that I
do employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of your
contradicting?”
“I was not going to contradict, Ma,” returned Caddy. “I was only
going to say that surely you wouldn’t have me be a mere drudge all
my life.”
“I believe, my dear,” said Mrs. Jellyby, still opening her letters,
casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them as she
spoke, “that you have a business example before you in your mother.
Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with the destinies
of the human race, it would raise you high above any such idea. But
you have none. I have often told you, Caddy, you have no such
sympathy.”
“Not if it’s Africa, Ma, I have not.”
“Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much
engaged, Miss Summerson,” said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly casting her
eyes for a moment on me and considering where to put the particu-
lar letter she had just opened, “this would distress and disappoint me.
But I have so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha
and it is so necessary I should concentrate myself that there is my
remedy, you see.”
As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Jellyby was
looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, I

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 Dickens

thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit and

to attract Mrs. Jellyby’s attention.
“Perhaps,” I began, “you will wonder what has brought me here to
interrupt you.”
“I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson,” said Mrs. Jellyby,
pursuing her employment with a placid smile. “Though I wish,” and she
shook her head, “she was more interested in the Borrioboolan project.”
“I have come with Caddy,” said I, “because Caddy justly thinks
she ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shall
encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don’t know how) in im-
parting one.”
“Caddy,” said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occupa-
tion and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, “you are
going to tell me some nonsense.”
Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and
letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily, said,
“Ma, I am engaged.”
“Oh, you ridiculous child!” observed Mrs. Jellyby with an
abstracted air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; “what a
goose you are!”
“I am engaged, Ma,” sobbed Caddy, “to young Mr. Turveydrop, at
the academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly
man indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you’ll give us
yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never, never
could!” sobbed Caddy, quite forgetful of her general complainings
and of everything but her natural affection.
“You see again, Miss Summerson,” observed Mrs. Jellyby serenely,
“what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am and to have
this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddy en-
gaged to a dancing-master’s son—mixed up with people who have
no more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has
herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists
of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be
interested in her!”
“Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!” sobbed Caddy.
“Caddy, Caddy!” returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another letter with
the greatest complacency. “I have no doubt you did. How could you

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do otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which

he overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to
me, if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these
petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. But can
I permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy (from
whom I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the great
African continent? No. No,” repeated Mrs. Jellyby in a calm clear
voice, and with an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and
sorted them. “No, indeed.”
I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception, though I
might have expected it, that I did not know what to say. Caddy seemed
equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open and sort letters and to repeat
occasionally in quite a charming tone of voice and with a smile of perfect
composure, “No, indeed.”
“I hope, Ma,” sobbed poor Caddy at last, “you are not angry?”
“Oh, Caddy, you really are an absurd girl,” returned Mrs. Jellyby,
“to ask such questions after what I have said of the preoccupation of
my mind.”
“And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?” said
Caddy.
“You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,”
said Mrs. Jellyby; “and a degenerate child, when you might have
devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is taken,
and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. Now, pray,
Caddy,” said Mrs. Jellyby, for Caddy was kissing her, “don’t delay me
in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before the
afternoon post comes in!”
I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detained
for a moment by Caddy’s saying, “You won’t object to my bringing
him to see you, Ma?”
“Oh, dear me, Caddy,” cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed into
that distant contemplation, “have you begun again? Bring whom?”
“Him, Ma.”
“Caddy, Caddy!” said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such little mat-
ters. “Then you must bring him some evening which is not a Parent
Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. You must
accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My dear Miss

348
 Dickens

Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this
silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new
letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the de-
tails of the native and coffee-cultivation question this morning, I
need not apologize for having very little leisure.”
I was not surprised by Caddy’s being in low spirits when we went
downstairs, or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her saying
she would far rather have been scolded than treated with such indif-
ference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in clothes
that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn’t know. I
gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many things she would
do for her unfortunate father and for Peepy when she had a home of
her own; and finally we went downstairs into the damp dark kitchen,
where Peepy and his little brothers and sisters were grovelling on the
stone floor and where we had such a game of play with them that to
prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces I was obliged to fall
back on my fairy-tales. From time to time I heard loud voices in the
parlour overhead, and occasionally a violent tumbling about of the
furniture. The last effect I am afraid was caused by poor Mr. Jellyby’s
breaking away from the dining-table and making rushes at the win-
dow with the intention of throwing himself into the area whenever
he made any new attempt to understand his affairs.
As I rode quietly home at night after the day’s bustle, I thought a
good deal of Caddy’s engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes
(in spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the happier
and better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chance of
her and her husband ever finding out what the model of deportment
really was, why that was all for the best too, and who would wish
them to be wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiser and indeed
was half ashamed of not entirely believing in him myself. And I
looked up at the stars, and thought about travellers in distant coun-
tries and the stars they saw, and hoped I might always be so blest and
happy as to be useful to some one in my small way.
They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always
were, that I could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not
been a method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the
house, from the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright

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face of welcome, and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do

anything for me, that I suppose there never was such a fortunate
little creature in the world.
We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and my
guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddy, that I went
on prose, prose, prosing for a length of time. At last I got up to my
own room, quite red to think how I had been holding forth, and
then I heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, “Come in!” and there
came in a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped
a curtsy.
“If you please, miss,” said the little girl in a soft voice, “I am
Charley.”
“Why, so you are,” said I, stooping down in astonishment and
giving her a kiss. “How glad am I to see you, Charley!”
“If you please, miss,” pursued Charley in the same soft voice,
“I’m your maid.”
“Charley?”
“If you please, miss, I’m a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce’s
love.”
I sat down with my hand on Charley’s neck and looked at Charley.
“And oh, miss,” says Charley, clapping her hands, with the tears
starting down her dimpled cheeks, “Tom’s at school, if you please,
and learning so good! And little Emma, she’s with Mrs. Blinder,
miss, a-being took such care of! And Tom, he would have been at
school—and Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder—
and me, I should have been here—all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr.
Jarndyce thought that Tom and Emma and me had better get a little
used to parting first, we was so small. Don’t cry, if you please, miss!”
“I can’t help it, Charley.”
“No, miss, nor I can’t help it,” says Charley. “And if you please,
miss, Mr. Jarndyce’s love, and he thinks you’ll like to teach me now
and then. And if you please, Tom and Emma and me is to see each
other once a month. And I’m so happy and so thankful, miss,” cried
Charley with a heaving heart, “and I’ll try to be such a good maid!”
“Oh, Charley dear, never forget who did all this!”
“No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won’t. Nor yet Emma. It was all
you, miss.”

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“I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, Charley.”

“Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you and that you
might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little present with
his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Tom was to
be sure to remember it.”
Charley dried her eyes and entered on her functions, going in her
matronly little way about and about the room and folding up every-
thing she could lay her hands upon. Presently Charley came creeping
back to my side and said, “Oh, don’t cry, if you please, miss.”
And I said again, “I can’t help it, Charley.”
And Charley said again, “No, miss, nor I can’t help it.” And so,
after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she.

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CHAPTER XXIV

An Appeal Case

AS SOON AS RICHARD AND I had held the conversation of which I have

given an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind to
Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by sur-
prise when he received the representation, though it caused him much
uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closeted
together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole
days in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge,
and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they
were thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent consider-
able inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed his head so
constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right place,
was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but maintained
a steady reserve on these matters. And as our utmost endeavours could
only elicit from Richard himself sweeping assurances that everything
was going on capitally and that it really was all right at last, our
anxiety was not much relieved by him.
We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application
was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard’s behalf as an infant
and a ward, and I don’t know what, and that there was a quantity of
talking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court as
a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter was adjourned
and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about
until Richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered
the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty years

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of age. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord
Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor
very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing
his mind—”a pretty good joke, I think,” said Richard, “from that
quarter!”—and at last it was settled that his application should be
granted. His name was entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant
for an ensign’s commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an
agent’s; and Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a
violent course of military study and got up at five o’clock every morn-
ing to practise the broadsword exercise.
Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We
sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as being in the paper or
out of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be
spoken to; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who was now in
a professor’s house in London, was able to be with us less frequently
than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so
time passed until the commission was obtained and Richard received
directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.
He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a
long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed be-
fore my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were
sitting and said, “Come in, my dears!” We went in and found Rich-
ard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-
piece looking mortified and angry.
“Rick and I, Ada,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “are not quite of one mind.
Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!”
“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Richard. “The harder
because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and
have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could
have been set right without you, sir.”
“Well, well!” said Mr. Jarndyce. “I want to set you more right yet.
I want to set you more right with yourself.”
“I hope you will excuse my saying, sir,” returned Richard in a
fiery way, but yet respectfully, “that I think I am the best judge
about myself.”
“I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick,” observed Mr.
Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, “that’s it’s

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quite natural in you to think so, but I don’t think so. I must do my
duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope
you will always care for me, cool and hot.”
Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-
chair and sat beside her.
“It’s nothing, my dear,” he said, “it’s nothing. Rick and I have only
had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the
theme. Now you are afraid of what’s coming.”
“I am not indeed, cousin John,” replied Ada with a smile, “if it is
to come from you.”
“Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute’s calm attention,
without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear
girl,” putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the easy-chair,
“you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little woman told me
of a little love affair?”
“It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your kind-
ness that day, cousin John.”
“I can never forget it,” said Richard.
“And I can never forget it,” said Ada.
“So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for us
to agree,” returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the gentleness
and honour of his heart. “Ada, my bird, you should know that Rick
has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that he has of
certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He has exhausted
his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted.”
“Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am
quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir,” said
Richard, “is not all I have.”
“Rick, Rick!” cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his man-
ner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would
have stopped his ears. “For the love of God, don’t found a hope or
expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the
grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phan-
tom that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to
beg, better to die!”
We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit his
lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, and knew that
I felt too, how much he needed it.
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“Ada, my dear,” said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, “these

are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and have seen a
sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to start him in the race of
life is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his sake and your
own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that
there is no sort of contract between you. I must go further. 1 will be
plain with you both. You were to confide freely in me, and I will
confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present,
any tie but your relationship.”
“Better to say at once, sir,” returned Richard, “that you renounce
all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same.”
“Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don’t mean it.”
“You think I have begun ill, sir,” retorted Richard. “I have, I know.”
“How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when
we spoke of these things last,” said Mr. Jarndyce in a cordial and en-
couraging manner. “You have not made that beginning yet, but there is
a time for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now
fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young,
my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may
come must come of being worked out, Rick, and no sooner.”
“You are very hard with me, sir,” said Richard. “Harder than I could
have supposed you would be.”
“My dear boy,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “I am harder with myself when
I do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your
own hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that
there should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is
better for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you
will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves.”
“Why is it best, sir?” returned Richard hastily. “It was not when we
opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then.”
“I have had experience since. I don’t blame you, Rick, but I have
had experience since.”
“You mean of me, sir.”
“Well! Yes, of both of you,” said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. “The time is
not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right,
and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin
afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to
write your lives in.”
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Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.

“I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Esther,”
said Mr. Jarndyce, “until now, in order that we might be open as the
day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most
earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. Leave all else to
time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong,
and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you together.”
A long silence succeeded.
“Cousin Richard,” said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to
his face, “after what our cousin John has said, I think no choice is left
us. Your mind may he quite at ease about me, for you will leave me
here under his care and will be sure that I can have nothing to wish
for—quite sure if I guide myself by his advice. I—I don’t doubt, cousin
Richard,” said Ada, a little confused, “that you are very fond of me, and
I—I don’t think you will fall in love with anybody else. But I should
like you to consider well about it too, as I should like you to be in all
things very happy. You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at all
changeable; but I am not unreasonable, and should never blame you.
Even cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry,
Richard, though I know it’s for your welfare. I shall always think of
you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and—and per-
haps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard. So now,”
said Ada, going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, “we are
only cousins again, Richard—for the time perhaps—and I pray for a
blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!”
It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my
guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he
himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But
it was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from this
hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been
before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and
solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.
In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost him-
self, and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in
Hertfordshire while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for
a week. He remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of
tears, and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-re-

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proaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some

undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and
happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.
It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long,
buying a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of the things
he would have bought if he had been left to his own ways I say
nothing. He was perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so
sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions,
and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived from these
conversations that I could never have been tired if I had tried.
There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our
lodging to fence with Richard a person who had formerly been a
cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bear-
ing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard so
much about him, not only from Richard, but from my guardian
too, that I was purposely in the room with my work one morning
after breakfast when he came.
“Good morning, Mr. George,” said my guardian, who happened
to be alone with me. “Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile,
Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down.”
He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought, and
without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and
across his upper lip.
“You are as punctual as the sun,” said Mr. Jarndyce.
“Military time, sir,” he replied. “Force of habit. A mere habit in
me, sir. I am not at all business-like.”
“Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?” said Mr.
Jarndyce.
“Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much
of a one.”
“And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you
make of Mr. Carstone?” said my guardian.
“Pretty good, sir,” he replied, folding his arms upon his broad
chest and looking very large. “If Mr. Carstone was to give his full
mind to it, he would come out very good.”
“But he don’t, I suppose?” said my guardian.
“He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind.

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Perhaps he has something else upon it—some young lady, perhaps.”

His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
“He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George,” said I,
laughing, “though you seem to suspect me.”
He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper’s
bow. “No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs.”
“Not at all,” said I. “I take it as a compliment.”
If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three
or four quick successive glances. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to
my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, “but you did me the
honour to mention the young lady’s name—”
“Miss Summerson.”
“Miss Summerson,” he repeated, and looked at me again.
“Do you know the name?” I asked.
“No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen
you somewhere.”
“I think not,” I returned, raising my head from my work to look
at him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and man-
ner that I was glad of the opportunity. “I remember faces very well.”
“So do I, miss!” he returned, meeting my look with the fullness of
his dark eyes and broad forehead. “Humph! What set me off, now,
upon that!”
His once more reddening through his brown and being discon-
certed by his efforts to remember the association brought my guard-
ian to his relief.
“Have you many pupils, Mr. George?”
“They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they’re but a small lot to
live by.”
“And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?”
“All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to
‘prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show
themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of
course, but they go everywhere where the doors stand open.”
“People don’t come with grudges and schemes of finishing their
practice with live targets, I hope?” said my guardian, smiling.
“Not much of that, sir, though that has happened. Mostly they
come for skill—or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other.

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I beg your pardon,” said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright and squar-
ing an elbow on each knee, “but I believe you’re a Chancery suitor, if
I have heard correct?”
“I am sorry to say I am.”
“I have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir.”
“A Chancery suitor?” returned my guardian. “How was that?”
“Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being
knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post,” said Mr.
George, “that he got out of sorts. I don’t believe he had any idea of taking
aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and violence
that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away till he was red
hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by and he had been
talking to me angrily about his wrongs, ‘If this practice is a safety-valve,
comrade, well and good; but I don’t altogether like your being so bent
upon it in your present state of mind; I’d rather you took to something
else.’ I was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate; but he re-
ceived it in very good part and left off directly. We shook hands and
struck up a sort of friendship.”
“What was that man?” asked my guardian in a new tone of interest.
“Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer before they
made a baited bull of him,” said Mr. George.
“Was his name Gridley?”
“It was, sir.”
Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances at
me as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the
coincidence, and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name.
He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of
what he called my condescension.
“I don’t know,” he said as he looked at me, “what it is that sets me
off again—but—bosh! What’s my head running against!” He passed
one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the
broken thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward, with one
arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown
study at the ground.
“I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Gridley
into new troubles and that he is in hiding,” said my guardian.
“So I am told, sir,” returned Mr. George, still musing and looking
on the ground. “So I am told.”
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“You don’t know where?”

“No, sir,” returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out
of his reverie. “I can’t say anything about him. He will be worn out
soon, I expect. You may file a strong man’s heart away for a good
many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last.”
Richard’s entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, made
me another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day,
and strode heavily out of the room.
This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard’s departure.
We had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his
packing early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night,
when he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce
being again expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me
that we should go down to the court and hear what passed. As it was
his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave
my consent and we walked down to Westminster, where the court was
then sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the
letters that Richard was to write to me and the letters that I was to
write to him and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian
knew where we were going and therefore was not with us.
When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor—the
same whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln’s Inn—sitting
in great state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on a
red table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a little garden,
which scented the whole court. Below the table, again, was a long
row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at their feet;
and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns—
some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying
much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in
his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and his
forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present dozed;
some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in groups:
all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very uncon-
cerned, and extremely comfortable.
To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the rough-
ness of the suitors’ lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and cer-
emony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it

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represented; to consider that while the sickness of hope deferred was

raging in so many hearts this polite show went calmly on from day
to day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to be-
hold the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of practitioners under
him looking at one another and at the spectators as if nobody had
ever heard that all over England the name in which they were as-
sembled was a bitter jest, was held in universal horror, contempt, and
indignation, was known for something so flagrant and bad that little
short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one—this
was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience
of it, that it was at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I
sat where Richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me;
but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little
Miss Flite, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at it.
Miss Flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me
a gracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with much gratifi-
cation and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Kenge also came to
speak to us and did the honours of the place in much the same way,
with the bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a very good day
for a visit, he said; he would have preferred the first day of term; but
it was imposing, it was imposing.
When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress—
if I may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion—seemed to
die out of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybody
expected to come, to any resuIt. The Lord Chancellor then threw
down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him,
and somebody said, “Jarndyce and Jarndyce.” Upon this there was a
buzz, and a laugh, and a general withdrawal of the bystanders, and a
bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full of papers.
I think it came on “for further directions”—about some bill of
costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough.
But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were
“in it,” and none of them appeared to understand it much better
than I. They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contra-
dicted and explained among themselves, and some of them said it
was this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some of
them jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there

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was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a

state of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by any-
body. After an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being
begun and cut short, it was “referred back for the present,” as Mr.
Kenge said, and the papers were bundled up again before the clerks
had finished bringing them in.
I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopeless
proceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome
young face. “It can’t last for ever, Dame Durden. Better luck next
time!” was all he said.
I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for
Mr. Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which
rendered me desirous to get out of the court. Richard had given me
his arm and was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone,” said he in a whisper, “and Miss
Summerson’s also, but there’s a lady here, a friend of mine, who
knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands.” As he
spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from
my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother’s house.
“How do you do, Esther?” said she. “Do you recollect me?”
I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very
little altered.
“I wonder you remember those times, Esther,” she returned with
her old asperity. “They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you,
and glad you are not too proud to know me.” But indeed she seemed
disappointed that I was not.
“Proud, Mrs. Rachael!” I remonstrated.
“I am married, Esther,” she returned, coldly correcting me, “and am
Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you’ll do well.”
Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a sigh in
my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael’s way through the confused
little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we were in the midst of
and which the change in the business had brought together. Richard and I were
making our way through it, and I was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected
recognition when I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person
than Mr. George. He made nothing of the people about him as he tramped
on, staring over their heads into the body of the court.

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“George!” said Richard as I called his attention to him.

“You are well met, sir,” he returned. “And you, miss. Could you
point a person out for me, I want? I don’t understand these places.”
Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped
when we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.
“There’s a little cracked old woman,” he began, “that—”
I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having kept
beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of
her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by
whispering in their ears, “Hush! Fitz Jarndyce on my left!”
“Hem!” said Mr. George. “You remember, miss, that we passed
some conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley,” in a low
whisper behind his hand.
“Yes,” said I.
“He is hiding at my place. I couldn’t mention it. Hadn’t his authority. He is
on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her. He says they can feel for one
another, and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. I came down
to look for her, for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the
roll of the muffled drums.”
“Shall I tell her?” said I.
“Would you be so good?” he returned with a glance of something
like apprehension at Miss Flite. “It’s a providence I met you, miss; I
doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady.” And he
put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as I
informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand.
“My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as my-
self!” she exclaimed. “Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him
with the greatest pleasure.”
“He is living concealed at Mr. George’s,” said I. “Hush! This is Mr.
George.”
“In—deed!” returned Miss Flite. “Very proud to have the honour!
A military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!” she whis-
pered to me.
Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as
a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it
was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this was at last
done, and addressing Mr. George as “General,” she gave him her

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arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on,
he was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully “not to desert
him” that I could not make up my mind to do it, especially as Miss
Flite was always tractable with me and as she too said, “Fitz Jarndyce,
my dear, you will accompany us, of course.” As Richard seemed quite
willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their
destination, we agreed to do so. And as Mr. George informed us that
Gridley’s mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon after hear-
ing of their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in pencil
to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. Mr. George
sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and we
sent it off by a ticket-porter.
We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood
of Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, for which
Mr. George apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of
which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to the
door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair, wearing spec-
tacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat,
and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed him.
“I ask your pardon, my good friend,” said he, “but is this George’s
Shooting Gallery?”
“It is, sir,” returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great letters in which
that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.
“Oh! To be sure!” said the old gentleman, following his eyes.
“Thank you. Have you rung the bell?”
“My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell.”
“Oh, indeed?” said the old gentleman. “Your name is George? Then
I am here as soon as you, you see. You came for me, no doubt?”
“No, sir. You have the advantage of me.”
“Oh, indeed?” said the old gentleman. “Then it was your young
man who came for me. I am a physician and was requested—five
minutes ago—to come and visit a sick man at George’s Shooting
Gallery.”
“The muffled drums,” said Mr. George, turning to Richard and
me and gravely shaking his head. “It’s quite correct, sir. Will you
please to walk in.”
The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-look-

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ing little man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands
and dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage
into a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets,
and guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. When we had
all arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off his hat, ap-
peared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different
man in his place.
“Now lookee here, George,” said the man, turning quickly round
upon him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. “You
know me, and I know you. You’re a man of the world, and I’m a man
of the world. My name’s Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a
peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a
long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit.”
Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head.
“Now, George,” said the other, keeping close to him, “you’re a
sensible man and a well-conducted man; that’s what you are, beyond
a doubt. And mind you, I don’t talk to you as a common character,
because you have served your country and you know that when duty
calls we must obey. Consequently you’re very far from wanting to
give trouble. If I required assistance, you’d assist me; that’s what you’d
do. Phil Squod, don’t you go a-sidling round the gallery like that”—
the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder against the
wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in a manner that looked threaten-
ing—”because I know you and won’t have it.”
“Phil!” said Mr. George.
“Yes, guv’ner.”
“Be quiet.”
The little man, with a low growl, stood still.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Bucket, “you’ll excuse anything
that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name’s Inspector
Bucket of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. George, I
know where my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw
him through the skylight, and you along with him. He is in there,
you know,” pointing; “that’s where he is—on a sofy. Now I must see
my man, and I must tell my man to consider himself in custody; but
you know me, and you know I don’t want to take any uncomfort-
able measures. You give me your word, as from one man to another

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(and an old soldier, mind you, likewise), that it’s honourable be-
tween us two, and I’ll accommodate you to the utmost of my power.”
“I give it,” was the reply. ‘“But it wasn’t handsome in you, Mr.
Bucket.”
“Gammon, George! Not handsome?” said Mr. Bucket, tapping
him on his broad breast again and shaking hands with him. “I don’t
say it wasn’t handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be
equally good-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw,
the Life Guardsman! Why, he’s a model of the whole British army in
himself, ladies and gentlemen. I’d give a fifty-pun’ note to be such a
figure of a man!”
The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a little
consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called
him), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went
away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing
by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of
entering into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid of
fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Richard if he were a
good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best of those
rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return
that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was naturally
so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and making
himself generally agreeable.
After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and
Richard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came after us.
He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take
a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips when
the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, “on the chance,” he slightly
observed, “of being able to do any little thing for a poor fellow in-
volved in the same misfortune as himself.” We all four went back
together and went into the place where Gridley was.
It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted
wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and
only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery
roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had
looked down. The sun was low—near setting—and its light came
redly in above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain

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canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as

we had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no
likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.
He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on
his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were cov-
ered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of
such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little
mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She sat on a
chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.
His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his
strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had at
last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of form and
colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from Shropshire
whom we had spoken with before.
He inclined his head to Richard and me and spoke to my guardian.
“Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not
long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You are
a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour you.”
They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of
comfort to him.
“It may seem strange to you, sir,” returned Gridley; “I should not
have liked to see you if this had been the flrst time of our meeting.
But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my
single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the
last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me;
so I don’t mind your seeing me, this wreck.”
“You have been courageous with them many and many a time,”
returned my guardian.
“Sir, I have been,” with a faint smile. “I told you what would
come of it when I ceased to be so, and see here! Look at us—look at
us!” He drew the hand Miss Flite held through her arm and brought
her something nearer to him.
“This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits
and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul
alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many
suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on
earth that Chancery has not broken.”

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“Accept my blessing, Gridley,” said Miss Flite in tears. “Accept my

blessing!”
“I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr.
Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe that I
could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were
until I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How long
I have been wearing out, I don’t know; I seemed to break down in an
hour. I hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody
here will lead them to believe that I died defying them, consistently
and perseveringly, as I did through so many years.”
Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner by the door, good-
naturedly offered such consolation as he could administer.
“Come, come!” he said from his corner. “Don’t go on in that way,
Mr. Gridley. You are only a little low. We are all of us a little low
sometimes. I am. Hold up, hold up! You’ll lose your temper with
the whole round of ‘em, again and again; and I shall take you on a
score of warrants yet, if I have luck.”
He only shook his head.
“Don’t shake your head,” said Mr. Bucket. “Nod it; that’s what I
want to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what times we have
had together! Haven’t I seen you in the Fleet over and over again for
contempt? Haven’t I come into court, twenty afternoons for no other
purpose than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog? Don’t
you remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers, and the
peace was sworn against you two or three times a week? Ask the little
old lady there; she has been always present. Hold up, Mr. Gridley,
hold up, sir!”
“What are you going to do about him?” asked George in a low voice.
“I don’t know yet,” said Bucket in the same tone. Then resuming
his encouragement, he pursued aloud: “Worn out, Mr. Gridley? Af-
ter dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof
here like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain’t like
being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what you want.
You want excitement, you know, to keep you up; that’s what you
want. You’re used to it, and you can’t do without it. I couldn’t my-
self. Very well, then; here’s this warrant got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since.

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 Dickens

What do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and
having a good angry argument before the magistrates? It’ll do you
good; it’ll freshen you up and get you into training for another turn
at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprised to hear a man of
your energy talk of giving in. You mustn’t do that. You’re half the fun
of the fair in the Court of Chancery. George, you lend Mr. Gridley a
hand, and let’s see now whether he won’t be better up than down.”
“He is very weak,” said the trooper in a low voice.
“Is he?” returned Bucket anxiously. “I only want to rouse him. I
don’t like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. It would
cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a little waxy
with me. He’s welcome to drop into me, right and left, if he likes. I
shall never take advantage of it.”
The roof rang with a scream from Miss Flite, which still rings in
my ears.
“Oh, no, Gridley!” she cried as he fell heavily and calmly back
from before her. “Not without my blessing. After so many years!”
The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof,
and the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that
pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard’s departure than
the darkness of the darkest night. And through Richard’s farewell
words I heard it echoed: “Of all my old associations, of all my old
pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one
poor soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie
of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever
had on earth that Chancery has not broken!”

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CHAPTER XXV

Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All

THERE IS DISQUIETUDE IN Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. Black suspicion

hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook’s Courtiers are in their
usual state of mind, no better and no worse; but Mr. Snagsby is changed,
and his little woman knows it.
For Tom-all-Alone’s and Lincoln’s Inn Fields persist in harnessing
themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr.
Snagsby’s imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers are
Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though
the law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock. Even in
the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles
away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr. Snagsby
pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked with pota-
toes and stares at the kitchen wall.
Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do
with. Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what
may come of it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and
unheard of quarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions
of the robes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through
the surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s chambers; his veneration for
the mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers,
whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legal
neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective
Mr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impos-
sible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to

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some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it is the

fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life,
at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any en-
trance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may take
air and fire, explode, and blow up—Mr. Bucket only knows whom.
For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop
(as many men unknown do) and says, “Is Mr. Snagsby in?” or words to
that innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby’s heart knocks hard at his guilty breast.
He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they are made
by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the counter
and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why they can’t
speak out at once? More impracticable men and boys persist in walk-
ing into Mr. Snagsby’s sleep and terrifying him with unaccountable
questions, so that often when the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor
Street breaks out in his usual absurd way about the morning, Mr.
Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman
shaking him and saying “What’s the matter with the man!”
The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. To
know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he has under all
circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double tooth, which
her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, gives Mr. Snagsby,
in her dentistical presence, much of the air of a dog who has a reserva-
tion from his master and will look anywhere rather than meet his eye.
These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are
not lost upon her. They impel her to say, “Snagsby has something on
his mind!” And thus suspicion gets into Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street.
From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby finds the road as natural
and short as from Cook’s Court to Chancery Lane. And thus jeal-
ousy gets into Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (and it was
always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble in Mrs.
Snagsby’s breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr.
Snagsby’s pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby’s letters; to pri-
vate researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box, and iron
safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a general
putting of this and that together by the wrong end.
Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes
ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The ‘prentices

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think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times.

Guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting,
where they were found floating among the orphans) that there is
buried money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with a
white beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because he
said the Lord’s Prayer backwards.
“Who was Nimrod?” Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself.
“Who was that lady—that creature? And who is that boy?” Now,
Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs.
Snagsby has appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she di-
rects her mental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the
boy. “And who,” quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first
time, “is that boy? Who is that—!” And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized
with an inspiration.
He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and he
wouldn’t have, of course. Naturally he wouldn’t, under those conta-
gious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr.
Chadband—why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!—
to come back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by
Mr. Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because
he was told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha!
Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.
But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly
smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;
and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to
improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was seized by
Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to the police
unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and unless he
entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in Cook’s Court
to-morrow night, “‘to—mor—row—night,” Mrs. Snagsby repeats for
mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight shake of her
head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and to-morrow night
Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye upon him and upon some one else; and
oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby
with haughtiness and scorn), but you can’t blind me!
Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody’s ears, but holds her
purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, the savoury

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preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes. Comes Mr.
Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when the
gorging vessel is replete) the ‘prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes
at last, with his slouching head, and his shuflle backward, and his
shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the
left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if it
were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating
raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.
Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into
the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby the
moment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr.
Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsby
sees it all? Why else should that look pass between them, why else
should Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind
his hand? It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy’s father.
‘“Peace, my friends,” says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily
exudations from his reverend visage. “Peace be with us! My friends,
why with us? Because,” with his fat smile, “it cannot be against us,
because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is
softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes
home unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us!
My human boy, come forward!”
Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on
Jo’s arm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of his
reverend friend’s intentions and not at all clear but that something
practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, “You let
me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let me alone.”
“No, my young friend,” says Chadband smoothly, “I will not let
you alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a
toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are
become as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I so
employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your profit,
to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! My young friend,
sit upon this stool.”
Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentle-
man wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got
into the required position with great difficulty and every possible
manifestation of reluctance.
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When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband,

retiring behind the table, holds up his bear’s-paw and says, “My
friends!” This is the signal for a general settlement of the audience.
The ‘prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. Guster falls
into a staring and vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration
of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendless outcast whose condition
touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently lays trains of gunpowder.
Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly by the fire and warms her
knees, finding that sensation favourable to the reception of eloquence.
It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some
member of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his points
with that particular person, who is understood to be expected to be
moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other audible expres-
sion of inward working, which expression of inward working, being
echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated
like a game of forfeits through a circle of the more fermentable sin-
ners present, serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering and gets
Mr. Chadband’s steam up. From mere force of
habit, Mr. Chadband in saying “My friends!” has rested his eye on
Mr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer, already
sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient of his discourse.
“We have here among us, my friends,” says Chadband, “a Gentile
and a heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone’s and a mover-
on upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,”
and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail,
bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throw
him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down,
“a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations,
devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of
precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these
possessions? Why? Why is he?” Mr. Chadband states the question as
if he were propoundlng an entirely new riddle of much ingenuity
and merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to give it up.
Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received
just now from his little woman—at about the period when Mr.
Chadband mentioned the word parents—is tempted into modestly
remarking, “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir.” On which interruption Mrs.

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Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, “For shame!”

“I hear a voice,” says Chadband; “is it a still small voice, my friends?
I fear not, though I fain would hope so—”
“Ah—h!” from Mrs. Snagsby.
“Which says, ‘I don’t know.’ Then I will tell you why. I say this
brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of rela-
tions, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and of
precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in upon
some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is that light?”
Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby is
not to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaning
forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directly into
Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned.
“It is,” says Chadband, “the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon
of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth.”
Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at
Mr. Snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that.
“Of Terewth,” says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. “Say not to
me that it is not the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to you, a
million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will proclaim it to
you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less you like it, the more
I will proclaim it to you. With a speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if
you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you
shall be battered, you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed.”
The present effect of this flight of oratory—much admired for its
general power by Mr. Chadband’s followers—being not only to make
Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent
Mr. Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with a
forehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate trades-
man becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advanced state
of low spirits and false position when Mr. Chadband accidentally
finishes him.
“My friends,” he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some time—
and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his pocket-
handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab—”to pursue
the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve, let
us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which I have

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alluded. For, my young friends,” suddenly addressing the ‘prentices

and Guster, to their consternation, “if I am told by the doctor that
calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask what is
calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed of that
before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, my young friends,
what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a spirit of love), what is the
common sort of Terewth—the working clothes—the every-day wear,
my young friends? Is it deception?”
“Ah—h!” from Mrs. Snagsby.
“Is it suppression?”
A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.
“Is it reservation?”
A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby—very long and very tight.
“No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names
belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us—who is
now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being
set upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I should
have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for
his sake—when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a
cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was that the
Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? No, my
friends, no!”
If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman’s look as it enters
at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole tene-
ment, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.
“Or, my juvenile friends,” says Chadband, descending to the level
of their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his
greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the pur-
pose, “if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and
there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the
mistress of this house, and was to say, ‘Sarah, rejoice with me, for I
have seen an elephant!’ would that be Terewth?”
Mrs. Snagsby in tears.
“Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and re-
turning said ‘Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,’ would that
be Terewth?”
Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly.

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“Or put it, my juvenile friends,” said Chadband, stimulated by

the sound, “that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen—
for parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt—after cast-
ing him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and
the young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings
and had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their
dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher’s meat and poul-
try, would that be Terewth?”
Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not an
unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook’s Court
re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she has to be
carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After unspeakable
suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she is pronounced,
by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though much ex-
hausted, in which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed
in the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, ventures
to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.
All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up,
ever picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He spits
them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to
be an unimprovable reprobate and that it’s no good his trying to
keep awake, for he won’t never know nothink. Though it may be,
Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as
near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for com-
mon men, that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from
the light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but
leave it unimproved, would but regard it as
being eloquent enough without their modest aid—it might hold
thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet!
Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the Reverend
Chadband are all one to him, except that he knows the Reverend
Chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than
hear him talk for five minutes. “It an’t no good my waiting here no
longer,” thinks Jo. “Mr. Snagsby an’t a-going to say nothink to me
to-night.” And downstairs he shuffles.
But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail of
the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same

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having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby’s screaming. She has her own
supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom she ventures to
interchange a word or so for the first time.
“Here’s something to eat, poor boy,” says Guster.
“Thank’ee, mum,” says Jo.
“Are you hungry?”
“Jist!” says Jo.
“What’s gone of your father and your mother, eh?”
Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For this or-
phan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting has
patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any
decent hand has been so laid upon him.
“I never know’d nothink about ‘em,” says Jo.
“No more didn’t I of mine,” cries Guster. She is repressing
symptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at
something and vanishes down the stairs.
“Jo,” whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the
step.
“Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!”
“I didn’t know you were gone—there’s another half-crown, Jo. It
was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night
when we were out together. It would breed trouble. You can’t be too
quiet, Jo.”
“I am fly, master!”
And so, good night.
A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-
stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. And hence-
forth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow
than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet
than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his own
shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! For the
watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too—bone of his bone, flesh of his
flesh, shadow of his shadow.

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CHAPTER XXVI

Sharpshooters

WINTRY MORNING, LOOKING with dull eyes and sallow face upon the
neighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants unwilling
to get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at the brightest
of times, being birds of night who roost when the sun is high and are
wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out. Behind dingy
blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulking more or less
under false names, false hair, false titles, false jewellery, and false his-
tories, a colony of brigands lie in their first sleep. Gentlemen of the
green-baize road who could discourse from personal experience of
foreign galleys and home treadmills; spies of strong governments
that eternally quake with weakness and miserable fear, broken trai-
tors, cowards, bullies, gamesters, shufflers, swindlers, and false wit-
nesses; some not unmarked by the branding-iron beneath their dirty
braid; all with more cruelty in them than was in Nero, and more
crime than is in Newgate. For howsoever bad the devil can be in
fustian or smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both), he is a more
designing, callous, and intolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his
shirt-front, calls himself a gentleman, backs a card or colour, plays a
game or so of billiards, and knows a little about bills and promissory
notes than in any other form he wears. And in such form Mr. Bucket
shall find him, when he will, still pervading the tributary channels of
Leicester Square.
But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It
wakes Mr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise,

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roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shaved
himself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marches
out, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and
anon comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain,
and exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a large jack-
towel, blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, his hair
curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more
he rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any less
coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb—as he rubs,
and puffs, and polishes, and blows, turning his head from side to side
the more conveniently to excoriate his throat, and standing with his
body well bent forward to keep the wet from his martial legs, Phil, on
his knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for
him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation for one day to take
in the superfluous health his master throws off.
When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with
two hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Phil, shoul-
dering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it, winks with
sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr. George’s
toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it, and marches up
and down smoking, as his custom is, while Phil, raising a powerful
odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. He smokes gravely
and marches in slow time. Perhaps this morning’s pipe is devoted to
the memory of Gridley in his grave.
“And so, Phil,” says George of the shooting gallery after several
turns in silence, “you were dreaming of the country last night?”
Phil, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambled
out of bed.
“Yes, guv’ner.”
“What was it like?”
“I hardly know what it was like, guv’ner,” said Phil, considering.
“How did you know it was the country?”
“On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it,” says
Phil after further consideration.
“What were the swans doing on the grass?”
“They was a-eating of it, I expect,” says Phil.
The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his prepara-

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tion of breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, being

limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requisites for
two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the rusty grate;
but as Phil has to sidle round a considerable part of the gallery for
every object he wants, and never brings two objects at once, it takes
time under the circumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. Phil
announcing it, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the
hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, and sits down to the
meal. When he has helped himself, Phil follows suit, sitting at the
extreme end of the little oblong table and taking his plate on his
knees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened hands, or because
it is his natural manner of eating.
“The country,” says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork; “why, I sup-
pose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?”
“I see the marshes once,” says Phil, contentedly eating his.
“What marshes?”
“The marshes, commander,” returns Phil.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know where they are,” says Phil; “but I see ‘em, guv’ner.
They was flat. And miste.”
Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Phil,
expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable to no-
body but Mr. George.
“I was born in the country, Phil.”
“Was you indeed, commander?”
“Yes. And bred there.”
Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his
master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still staring
at him.
“There’s not a bird’s note that I don’t know,” says Mr. George. “Not
many an English leaf or berry that I couldn’t name. Not many a tree that
I couldn’t climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real country boy, once. My
good mother lived in the country.”
“She must have been a fine old lady, guv’ner,” Phil observes.
“Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago,” says Mr.
George. “But I’ll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright as
me, and near as broad across the shoulders.”

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“Did she die at ninety, guv’ner?” inquires Phil.

“No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!” says the trooper. “What
set me on about country boys, and runaways, and good-for-nothings?
You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes upon the country—marshes
and dreams excepted. Eh?”
Phil shakes his head.
“Do you want to see it?”
“N-no, I don’t know as I do, particular,” says Phil.
“The town’s enough for you, eh?”
“Why, you see, commander,” says Phil, “I ain’t acquainted with
anythink else, and I doubt if I ain’t a-getting too old to take to
novelties.”
“How old are you, Phil?” asks the trooper, pausing as he conveys
his smoking saucer to his lips.
“I’m something with a eight in it,” says Phil. “It can’t be eighty.
Nor yet eighteen. It’s betwixt ‘em, somewheres.”
Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its
contents, is laughingly beginning, “Why, what the deuce, Phil—”
when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.
“I was just eight,” says Phil, “agreeable to the parish calculation,
when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand,
and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself
wery comfortable, and he says, ‘Would you like to come along a me,
my man?’ I says ‘Yes,’ and him and me and the fire goes home to
Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count
up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to
myself, ‘Now, old chap, you’re one and a eight in it.’ April Fool Day
after that, I says, ‘Now, old chap, you’re two and a eight in it.’ In
course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in
it. When it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is how
I always know there’s a eight in it.”
“Ah!” says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. “And where’s the
tinker?”
“Drink put him in the hospital, guv’ner, and the hospital put him—
in a glass-case, I have heerd,” Phil replies mysteriously.
“By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?”
“Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn’t much

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of a beat—round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell, Smiffeld,

and there—poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till
they’re past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and
lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master’s earnings. But
they didn’t come to me. I warn’t like him. He could sing ‘em a good
song. I couldn’t! He could play ‘em a tune on any sort of pot you
please, so as it was iron or block tin. I never could do nothing with a
pot but mend it or bile it—never had a note of music in me. Besides,
I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me.”
“They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd,
Phil!” says the trooper with a pleasant smile.
“No, guv’ner,” returns Phil, shaking his head. “No, I shouldn’t. I
was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothing to
boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when
I was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off,
and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat’rally unfort’nate
in the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich
means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older,
almost whenever he was too far gone in drink—which was almost
always—my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to
since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was
given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a gas-
works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at the
firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!”
Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied
manner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While drink-
ing it, he says, “It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see
you, commander. You remember?”
“I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.”
“Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall—”
“True, Phil—shouldering your way on—”
“In a night-cap!” exclaims Phil, excited.
“In a night-cap—”
“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Phil, still more ex-
cited.
“With a couple of sticks. When—”
“When you stops, you know,” cries Phil, putting down his cup

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and saucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, “and says to
me, ‘What, comrade! You have been in the wars!’ I didn’t say much
to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so
strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such
a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, deliv-
ering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a
glass of something hot, ‘What accident have you met with? You have
been badly hurt. What’s amiss, old boy? Cheer up,
and tell us about it!’ Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says
as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says
more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!”
cries Phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun
to sidle away. “If a mark’s wanted, or if it will improve the business,
let the customers take aim at me. They can’t spoil my beauty. I’m all
right. Come on! If they want a man to box at, let ‘em box at me. Let
‘em knock me well about the head. I don’t mind. If they want a
light-weight to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or
Lancashire, let ‘em throw me. They won’t hurt me. I have been
throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!”
With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered and
accompanied by action illustrative of the various exercises referred
to, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and
abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his
head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then begins to
clear away the breakfast.
Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the
shoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get the gallery
into business order. That done, he takes a turn at the dumb-bells,
and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is getting “too
fleshy,” engages with great gravity in solitary broadsword practice.
Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at his usual table, where he screws
and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and whistles into small apertures,
and blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and undo
everything that can be done and undone about a gun.
Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the pas-
sage, where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of
unusual company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the

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gallery, bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with

any day in the year but the fifth of November.
It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two bear-
ers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched mask,
who might be expected immediately to recite the popular verses com-
memorative of the time when they did contrive to blow Old En-
gland up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly closed
as the chair is put down. At which point the figure in it gasping, “O
Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!” adds, “How de do, my dear friend,
how de do?” Mr. George then descries, in the procession, the vener-
able Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attended by his granddaughter
Judy as body-guard.
“Mr. George, my dear friend,” says Grandfather Smallweed, re-
moving his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he
has nearly throttled coming along, “how de do? You’re surprised to
see me, my dear friend.”
“I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend
in the city,” returns Mr. George.
“I am very seldom out,” pants Mr. Smallweed. “I haven’t been out
for many months. It’s inconvenient—and it comes expensive. But I
longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?”
“I am well enough,” says Mr. George. “I hope you are the same.”
“You can’t be too well, my dear friend.” Mr. Smallweed takes him
by both hands. “I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn’t
keep her away. She longed so much to see you.”
“Hum! She hears it calmly!” mutters Mr. George.
“So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the
corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried me
here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment! This,”
says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has been in
danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his windpipe, “is
the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by agreement included
in his fare. This person,” the other bearer, “we engaged in the street
outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence. Judy, give the person
twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my
dear friend, or we needn’t have employed this person.”
Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of consider-

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able terror and a half-subdued “O Lord! Oh, dear me!” Nor in his
apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for
Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap
before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air
of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old
bird of the crow species.
“Judy, my child,” says Grandfather Smallweed, “give the person
his twopence. It’s a great deal for what he has done.”
The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of hu-
man fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of
London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a “mission” for hold-
ing horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything
but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed,
and retires.
“My dear Mr. George,” says Grandfather Smallweed, “would you
be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire,
and I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!”
His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman
by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him
up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.
“O Lord!” says Mr. Smallweed, panting. “Oh, dear me! Oh, my
stars! My dear friend, your workman is very strong—and very prompt.
O Lord, he is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little. I’m being
scorched in the legs,” which indeed is testified to the noses of all
present by the smell of his worsted stockings.
The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from
the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his
overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr. Smallweed
again says, “Oh, dear me! O Lord!” and looking about and meeting
Mr. George’s glance, again stretches out both hands.
“My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your estab-
lishment? It’s a delightful place. It’s a picture! You
never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear
friend?” adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.
“No, no. No fear of that.”
“And your workman. He—Oh, dear me!—he never lets anything
off without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?”

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“He has never hurt anybody but himself,” says Mr. George, smiling.
“But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good
deal, and he might hurt somebody else,” the old gentleman returns.
“He mightn’t mean it—or he even might. Mr. George, will you or-
der him to leave his infernal firearms alone and go away?”
Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed,
to the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls to
rubbing his legs.
“And you’re doing well, Mr. George?” he says to the trooper,
squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in
his hand. “You are prospering, please the Powers?”
Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, “Go on. You have
not come to say that, I know.”
“You are so sprightly, Mr. George,” returns the venerable
grandfather. “You are such good company.”
“Ha ha! Go on!” says Mr. George.
“My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It
might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George.
Curse him!” says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy as the trooper
takes a step or two away to lay it aside. “He owes me money, and
might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I wish
your brimstone grandmother was here, and he’d shave her head off.”
Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the
old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says
quietly, “Now for it!”
“Ho!” cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful
chuckle. “Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?”
“For a pipe,” says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his
chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it and
lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.
This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it so
difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes
exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent vindictive-
ness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the visage of Mr.
George. As the excellent old gentleman’s nails are long and leaden,
and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and watery; and,
over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to slide down in

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his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he becomes such a

ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of Judy, that that young
virgin pounces at him with something more than the ardour of af-
fection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him in divers parts
of his body, but particularly in that part which the science of self-
defence would call his wind, that in his grievous distress he utters
enforced sounds like a paviour’s rammer.
When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a
white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out her
weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back. The
trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed grand-
father, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at the fire.
“Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U—u—u—ugh!” chatters Grandfather
Smallweed, swallowing his rage. “My dear friend!” (still clawing).
“I tell you what,” says Mr. George. “If you want to converse with
me, you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can’t go about
and about. I haven’t the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don’t
suit me. When you go winding round and round me,” says the trooper,
putting his pipe between his lips again, “damme, if I don’t feel as if I
was being smothered!”
And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to
assure himself that he is not smothered yet.
“If you have come to give me a friendly call,” continues Mr. George,
“I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether
there’s any property on the premises, look about you; you are wel-
come. If you want to out with something, out with it!”
The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire,
gives her grandfather one ghostly poke.
“You see! It’s her opinion too. And why the devil that young
woman won’t sit down like a Christian,” says Mr. George with his
eyes musingly fixed on Judy, “I can’t comprehend.”
“She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir,” says Grandfather
Smallweed. “I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some
attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot”
(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), “but I need
attention, my dear friend.”
“Well!” returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man.
“Now then?”
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“My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with
a pupil of yours.”
“Has he?” says Mr. George. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, sir.” Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. “He is a fine young
soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came
forward and paid it all up, honourable.”
“Did they?” returns Mr. George. “Do you think your friend in the
city would like a piece of advice?”
“I think he would, my dear friend. From you.”
“I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There’s
no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is
brought to a dead halt.”
“No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir,”
remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare
legs. “Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is
good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commis-
sion, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his
chance in a wife, and—oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my
friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?”
says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratch-
ing his ear like a monkey.
Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his
chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he
were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has taken.
“But to pass from one subject to another,” resumes Mr. Smallweed.
“‘To promote the conversation, as a joker might say. To pass, Mr.
George, from the ensign to the captain.”
“What are you up to, now?” asks Mr. George, pausing with a frown
in stroking the recollection of his moustache. “What captain?”
“Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.”
“Oh! That’s it, is it?” says Mr. George with a low whistle as he sees
both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. “You are there!
Well? What about it? Come, I won’t be smothered any more. Speak!”
“My dear friend,” returns the old man, “I was applied—Judy, shake
me up a little!—I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my
opinion still is that the captain is not dead.”
“Bosh!” observes Mr. George.

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“What was your remark, my dear friend?” inquires the old man
with his hand to his ear.
“Bosh!”
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “Mr. George, of my opinion
you can judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me
and the reasons given for asking ‘em. Now, what do you think the
lawyer making the inquiries wants?”
“A job,” says Mr. George.
“Nothing of the kind!”
“Can’t be a lawyer, then,” says Mr. George, folding his arms with
an air of confirmed resolution.
“My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see
some fragment in Captain Hawdon’s writing. He don’t want to keep
it. He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his pos-
session.”
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement
concerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given
respecting him, he looked it up and came to me—just as you did,
my dear friend. Will you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I
should have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn’t come!”
“Well, Mr. Smallweed?” says Mr. George again after going through
the ceremony with some stiffness.
“I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him,”
says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remem-
brances of a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry
hands, “I have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you,”
breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy re-adjusts the
cap on his skittle-ball of a head, “you, my dear Mr. George, are likely
to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. Anything
would suit the purpose, written in the hand.”
“Some writing in that hand,” says the trooper, pondering; “may
be, I have.”
“My dearest friend!”
“May be, I have not.”
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen.

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“But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would

make a cartridge without knowing why.”
“Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you
why.”
“Not enough,” says the trooper, shaking his head. “I must know
more, and approve it.”
“Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come
and see the gentleman?” urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out a
lean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. “I told him it
was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this fore-
noon, and it’s now half after ten. Will you come and see the gentleman,
Mr. George?”
“Hum!” says he gravely. “I don’t mind that. Though why this should
concern you so much, I don’t know.”
“Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing any-
thing to light about him. Didn’t he take us all in? Didn’t he owe us
immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything about
him concern more than me? Not, my dear friend,” says Grandfather
Smallweed, lowering his tone, “that I want you to betray anything.
Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear friend?”
“Aye! I’ll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know.”
“No, my dear Mr. George; no.”
“And you mean to say you’re going to give me a lift to this place,
wherever it is, without charging for it?” Mr. George inquires, getting
his hat and thick wash-leather gloves.
This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed that he laughs, long and
low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances over his
paralytic shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as he un-
locks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the
gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and ultimately
takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it in
his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, and Mr. Smallweed
pokes Judy once.
“I am ready,” says the trooper, coming back. “Phil, you can carry
this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him.”
“Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!” says Mr. Smallweed. “He’s
so very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?”

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Phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidles away,
tightly bugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweed, and bolts along
the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry the old
gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust, however, termi-
nating at the cab, he deposits him there; and the fair Judy takes her
place beside him, and the chair embellishes the roof, and Mr. George
takes the vacant place upon the box.
Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from
time to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind
him, where the grim Judy is always motionless, and the old gentle-
man with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the
straw and looking upward at him out of his other eye with a helpless
expression of being jolted in the back.

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CHAPTER XXVII

More Old Soldiers Than One

MR. GEORGE HAS NOT FAR to ride with folded arms upon the box, for
their destination is Lincoln’s Inn Fields. When the driver stops his horses,
Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, says, “What, Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s your man, is he?”
“Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?”
“Why, I have heard of him—seen him too, I think. But I don’t
know him, and he don’t know me.”
There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs, which is done
to perfection with the trooper’s help. He is borne into Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the fire. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will be back
directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus much,
stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.
Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks up
at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates
the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the boxes.
“‘Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,’” Mr. George reads thoughtfully.
“Ha! ‘Manor of Chesney Wold.’ Humph!” Mr. George stands look-
ing at these boxes a long while—as if they were pictures—and comes
back to the fire repeating, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and Manor
of Chesney Wold, hey?”
“Worth a mint of money, Mr. George!” whispers Grandfather
Smallweed, rubbing his legs. “Powerfully rich!”
“Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?”

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“This gentleman, this gentleman.”

“So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I’ll hold a wager. Not
bad quarters, either,” says Mr. George, looking round again. “See the
strong-box yonder!”
This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn’s arrival. There is no
change in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles in his
hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, close and dry.
In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually
not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have
warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn,
after all, if everything were known.
“Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!” he says as he
comes in. “You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant.”
As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat,
he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper
stands and says within himself perchance, “You’ll do, my friend!”
“Sit down, sergeant,” he repeats as he comes to his table, which is set
on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. “Cold and raw this
morning, cold and raw!” Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before the bars, al-
ternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks (from behind
that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting in a little semicircle
before him.
“Now, I can feel what I am about” (as perhaps he can in two senses),
“Mr. Smallweed.” The old gentleman is newly shaken up by Judy to
bear his part in the conversation. “You have brought our good friend
the sergeant, I see.”
“Yes, sir,” returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer’s
wealth and influence.
“And what does the sergeant say about this business?”
“Mr. George,” says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave
of his shrivelled hand, “this is the gentleman, sir.”
Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and pro-
foundly silent—very forward in his chair, as if the full complement of regula-
tion appendages for a field-day hung about him.
Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, “Well, George—I believe your name is
George?”
“It is so, Sir.”

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“What do you say, George?”

“I ask your pardon, sir,” returns the trooper, “but I should wish to
know what you say?”
“Do you mean in point of reward?”
“I mean in point of everything, sir.”
This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed’s temper that he suddenly
breaks out with “You’re a brimstone beast!” and as suddenly asks par-
don of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of the tongue
by saying to Judy, “I was thinking of your grandmother, my dear.”
“I supposed, sergeant,” Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on
one side of his chair and crosses his legs, “that Mr. Smallweed might
have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest compass,
however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and were
his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services, and
were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, that is so,” says Mr. George with military brevity.
“Therefore you may happen to have in your possession something—
anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter, anything—
in Captain Hawdon’s writing. I wish to compare his writing with some
that I have. If you can give me the opportunity, you shall be rewarded for
your trouble. Three, four, five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I
dare say.”
“Noble, my dear friend!” cries Grandfather Smallweed, screwing
up his eyes.
“If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you
can demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing, against
your inclination—though I should prefer to have it.”
Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the
painted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr. Smallweed
scratches the air.
“The question is,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, sub-
dued, uninterested way, “first, whether you have any of Captain
Hawdon’s writing?”
“First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon’s writing, sir,” re-
peats Mr. George.
“Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?”
“Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it,

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sir,” repeats Mr. George.

“Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that,”
says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written
paper tied together.
“Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so,” repeats Mr. George.
All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical man-
ner, looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as
glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given
to him for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), but
continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.
“Well?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “What do you say?”
“Well, sir,” replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking immense,
“I would rather, if you’ll excuse me, have nothing to do with this.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, “Why
not?”
“Why, sir,” returns the trooper. “Except on military compulsion, I
am not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call in
Scotland a ne’er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I can stand any
fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentioned to Mr. Smallweed,
only an hour or so ago, that when I come into things of this kind I feel
as if I was being smothered. And that is my sensation,” says Mr. George,
looking round upon the company, “at the present moment.”
With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on
the lawyer’s table and three strides backward to resume his former
station, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at the ground
and now at the painted ceillhg, with his hands behind him as if to
prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.
Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed’s favourite adjective of dis-
paragement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words “my dear
friend” with the monosyllable “brim,” thus converting the possessive
pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment in his
speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear friend in
the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so eminent a
gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace, confident that it
must be unobjectionable as well as profitable. Mr. Tulkinghorn merely
utters an occasional sentence, as, “You are the best judge of your own
interest, sergeant.” “Take care you do no harm by this.” “Please your-

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self, please yourself.” “If you know what you mean, that’s quite enough.”
These he utters with an appearance of perfect indifference as he looks
over the papers on his table and prepares to write a letter.
Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the
ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed
to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceil-
ing again, often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.
“I do assure you, sir,” says Mr. George, “not to say it offensively,
that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am being smoth-
ered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a match for you gentle-
men. Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain’s
hand, in the case that I could find any specimen of it?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. “No. If you were a man
of business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there
are confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such
wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you are afraid of
doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest
about that.”
“Aye! He is dead, sir.”
“Is he?” Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.
“Well, sir,” says the trooper, looking into his hat after another dis-
concerted pause, “I am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction.
If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I should be confirmed
in my judgment that I would rather have nothing to do with this by
a friend of mine who has a better head for business than I have, and
who is an old soldier, I am willing to consult with him. I—I really
am so completely smothered myself at present,” says Mr. George,
passing his hand hopelessly across his brow, “that I don’t know but
what it might be a satisfaction to me.”
Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so
strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper’s taking counsel
with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of
five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see him.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.
“I’ll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir,” says the trooper,
“and I’ll take the liberty of looking in again with the
final answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to

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be carried downstairs—”
“In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me
speak half a word with this gentleman in private?”
“Certainly, sir. Don’t hurry yourself on my account.” The trooper
retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious inspec-
tion of the boxes, strong and otherwise.
“If I wasn’t as weak as a brimstone baby, sir,” whispers Grandfather
Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his
coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry
eyes, “I’d tear the writing away from him. He’s got it buttoned in his
breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him put it there. Speak up,
you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you
saw him put it there!”
This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with
such a thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength,
and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with
him, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.
“Violence will not do for me, my friend,” Mr. Tulkinghorn then
remarks coolly.
“No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it’s chafing and galling—it’s—
it’s worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother,”
to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, “to know he
has got what’s wanted and won’t give it up. He, not to give it up! He!
A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, he has
only his own way for a little while. I have him periodically in a vice.
I’ll twist him, sir. I’ll screw him, sir. If he won’t do it with a good
grace, I’ll make him do it with a bad one, sir! Now, my dear Mr.
George,” says Grandfather Smallweed, winking at the lawyer hid-
eously as he releases him, “I am ready for your kind assistance, my
excellent friend!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement mani-
festing itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug
with his back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed
and acknowledging the trooper’s parting salute with one slight nod.
It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. George
finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when he is
replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject of the

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guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button—having,

in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him—that
some degree of force is necessary on the trooper’s part to effect a
separation. It is accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in quest
of his adviser.
By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without a
glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something
in his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr.
George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere
in that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets from
the bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who has
lost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a stronger
iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any day
he dares. To one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician’s
shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some Pan’s pipes and
a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music,
Mr. George directs his massive tread. And halting at a few paces from
it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her outer skirts tucked
up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub commence
a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement, Mr.
George says to himself, “She’s as usual, washing greens. I never saw
her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn’t washing greens!”
The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in
washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr.
George’s approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when
she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing
near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.
“George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!”
The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into
the musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens
upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms
upon it.
“I never,” she says, “George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute
when you’re near him. You are that resfless and that roving—”
“Yes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.”
“You know you are!” says Mrs. Bagnet. “What’s the use of that?
Why are you?”

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“The nature of the animal, I suppose,” returns the trooper good-

humouredly.
“Ah!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly. “But what satisfaction
will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have
tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand
or Australey?”
Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-boned,
a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which
have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome,
and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from
forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and so economically dressed (though
substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she stands
possessed appear’s to be her wedding-ring, around which her finger
has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will never come
off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet’s dust.
“Mrs. Bagnet,” says the trooper, “I am on my parole with you.
Mat will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far.”
“Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling,”
Mrs. Bagnet rejoins. “Ah, George, George! If you had only settled
down and married Joe Pouch’s widow when he died in North
America, she’d have combed your hair for you.”
“It was a chance for me, certainly,” returns the trooper half laugh-
ingly, half seriously, “but I shall never settle down into a respectable
man now. Joe Pouch’s widow might have done me good—there was
something in her, and something of her—but I couldn’t make up
my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat
found!”
Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little re-
serve with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of
fellow herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr.
George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the
little room behind the shop.
“Why, Quebec, my poppet,” says George, following, on invita-
tion, into that department. “And little Malta, too! Come and kiss
your Bluffy!”
These young ladies—not supposed to have been actually chris-
tened by the names applied to them, though always so called in the

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family from the places of their birth in barracks—are respectively

employed on three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years
old) in learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or
nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity. Both
hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend and after some
kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.
“And how’s young Woolwich?” says Mr. George.
“Ah! There now!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her sauce-
pans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face.
“Would you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter, with his
father, to play the fife in a military piece.”
“Well done, my godson!” cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh.
“I believe you!” says Mrs. Bagnet. “He’s a Briton. That’s what
Woolwich is. A Briton!”
“And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you’re respectable civil-
ians one and all,” says Mr. George. “Family people. Children grow-
ing up. Mat’s old mother in Scotland, and your old father some-
where else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and—well, well!
To be sure, I don’t know why I shouldn’t be wished a hundred mile
away, for I have not much to do with all this!”
Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the
whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and
contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or
dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots
and pannikins upon the dresser shelves—Mr. George is becoming
thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet
and young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex-
artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers
like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid
complexion. His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike
the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted. Indeed there may
be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound
air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra. Young
Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.
Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in due
season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet hospi-
tably declares that he will hear of no business until after dinner and that

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his friend shall not partake of his counsel without first partaking of
boiled pork and greens. The trooper yielding to this invitation, he and
Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic preparations, go forth to
take a turn up and down the little street, which they promenade with
measured tread and folded arms, as if it were a rampart.
“George,” says Mr. Bagnet. “You know me. It’s my old girl that
advises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her. Discipline
must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then we’ll
consult. Whatever the old girl says, do—do it!”
“I intend to, Mat,” replies the other. “I would sooner take her
opinion than that of a college.”
“College,” returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like.
“What college could you leave—in another quarter of the world—
with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella—to make its way
home to Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!”
“You are right,” says Mr. George.
“What college,” pursues Bagnet, “could you set up in life—with
two penn’orth of white lime—a penn’orth of fuller’s earth—a ha’porth
of sand—and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money? That’s
what the old girl started on. In the present business.”
“I am rejoiced to hear it’s thriving, Mat.”
“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, “saves. Has a stock-
ing somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I know she’s
got it. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she’ll set you up.”
“She is a treasure!” exclaims Mr. George.
“She’s more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be
maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musical abilities.
I should have been in the artillery now but for the old girl. Six years
I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. The old girl said it wouldn’t
do; intention good, but want of flexibility; try the bassoon. The old
girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the Rifle Regiment.
I practised in the trenches. Got on, got another, get a living by it!”
George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an
apple.
“The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet in reply, “is a thoroughly fine
woman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets finer as
she gets on. I never saw the old girl’s equal. But I never own to it

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before her. Discipline must be maintained!”

Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and
down the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by Quebec
and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which Mrs. Bagnet,
like a military chaplain, says a short grace. In the distribution of these
comestibles, as in every other household duty, Mrs. Bagnet developes
an exact system, sitting with every dish before her, allotting to every
portion of pork its own portion of pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and
even mustard, and serving it out complete. Having likewise served out
the beer from a can and thus supplied the mess with all things neces-
sary, Mrs. Bagnet proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a
healthy state. The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so
denominated, is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have
done duty in several parts of the world. Young Woolwich’s knife, in
particular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a
strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of
that young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the
complete round of foreign service.
The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches
(who polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes all
the dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all away,
first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor
may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. These household
cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the backyard
and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to assist in
the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That old girl reappearing by
and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her
needlework, then and only then—the greens being only then to be
considered as entirely off her mind—Mr. Bagnet requests the trooper
to state his case.
This Mr. George does with great discretion, appearing to address
himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all the
time, as Bagnet has himself. She, equally discreet, busies herself with
her needlework. The case fully stated, Mr. Bagnet resorts to his stan-
dard artifice for the maintenance of discipline.
“That’s the whole of it, is it, George?” says he.
“That’s the whole of it.”

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“You act according to my opinion?”

“I shall be guided,” replies George, “entirely by it.”
“Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “give him my opinion. You know it.
Tell him what it is.”
It is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too
deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters
he does not understand—that the plain rule is to do nothing in the
dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never
to put his foot where he cannot see the ground. This, in effect, is Mr.
Bagnet’s opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it so relieves
Mr. George’s mind by confirming his own opinion and banishing
his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe on that
exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with the whole
Bagnet family, according to their various ranges of experience.
Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. George does not
again rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing
on when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public at the
theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. George, in his domes-
tic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta and insinu-
ate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with felicita-
tions on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. George again turns his
face towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“A family home,” he ruminates as he marches along, “however
small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it’s well I never
made that evolution of matrimony. I shouldn’t have been fit for it. I
am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I
couldn’t hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pur-
suit or if I didn’t camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! I disgrace nobody
and cumber nobody; that’s something. I have not done that for many
a long year!”
So he whistles it off and marches on.
Arrived in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
stair, he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, but the
trooper not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase be-
ing dark besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping to
discover a bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr.
Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks,

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“Who is that? What are you doing there?”

“I ask your pardon, sir. It’s George. The sergeant.”
“And couldn’t George, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?”
“Why, no, sir, I couldn’t. At any rate, I didn’t,” says the
trooper, rather nettled.
“Have you changed your mind? Or are you in the same mind?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well enough at a glance.
“In the same mind, sir.”
“I thought so. That’s sufficient. You can go. So you are the
man,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, “in whose
hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?”
“Yes, I am the man,” says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs
down. “What then, sir?”
“What then? I don’t like your associates. You should not have seen the inside
of my door this morning if I had thought of your being that man. Gridley? A
threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow.”
With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the
lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering noise.
Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater
because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all
and evidently applies them to him. “A pretty character to bear,” the
trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides
downstairs. “A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!” And look-
ing up, he sees the clerk looking down at him and marking him as he
passes a lamp. This so intensifies his dudgeon that for five minutes
he is in an ill humour. But he whistles that off like the rest of it and
marches home to the shooting gallery.

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CHAPTER XXVIII

The Ironmaster

SIR LEICESTER DEDLOCK HAS GOT the better, for the time being, of the
family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a figurative
point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place in Lincolnshire; but
the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds, and the cold and
damp steal into Chesney Wold, though well defended, and eke into
Sir Leicester’s bones. The blazing fires of faggot and coal—Dedlock
timber and antediluvian forest—that blaze upon the broad wide
hearths and wink in the twilight on the frowning woods, sullen to
see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude the enemy. The hot-water
pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the cushioned doors
and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to supply the fires’
deficiencies and to satisfy Sir Leicester’s need. Hence the fashionable
intelligence proclaims one morning to the listening earth that Lady
Dedlock is expected shortly to return to town for a few weeks.
It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor rela-
tions. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share of poor
relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior quality, like
inferior blood unlawfully shed, will cry aloud and will be heard. Sir
Leicester’s cousins, in the remotest degree, are so many murders in
the respect that they “will out.” Among whom there are cousins who
are so poor that one might almost dare to think it would have been
the happier for them never to have been plated links upon the Dedlock
chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron at first and
done base service.

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Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not

profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. So they
visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live but
shabbily when they can’t, and find—the women no husbands, and the
men no wives—and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts that are
never of their own making, and so go through high life. The rich
family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they are the
something over that nobody knows what to do with.
Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock’s side of the question and of
his way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less.
From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to
Noodle, Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of
relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the
Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his digni-
fied way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present time,
in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins at
Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.
Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, a
young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour
to be a poor relation, by the mother’s side, to another great family.
Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting
ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar in
the Spanish tongue, and propounding French conundrums in coun-
try houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between twenty
and forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing then out of date
and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal performances in
the Spanish language, she retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on
an annual present from Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional
resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive
acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs
and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city. But
she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of an indiscreet profu-
sion in the article of rouge and persistency in an obsolete pearl necklace
like a rosary of little bird’s-eggs.
In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear
case for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, and
when William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name

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would be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William

Buffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these
were not the times when it could be done, and this was the first clear
indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the coun-
try was going to pieces.
There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warm
mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot than
most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly desirous
to serve his country in a post of good emoluments, unaccompanied
by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-regulated body politic this
natural desire on the part of a spirited young gentleman so highly
connected would be speedily recognized, but somehow William Buffy
found when he came in that these were not times in which he could
manage that little matter either, and this was the second indication
Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was
going to pieces.
The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and
capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to have done
well enough in life if they could have overcome their cousinship; as it
is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and lounge in purposeless
and listless paths, and seem to be quite as much at a loss how to dispose
of themselves as anybody else can be how to dispose of them.
In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme.
Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world
(for the world of fashion does not stretch all the way from pole to
pole), her influence in Sir Leicester’s house, however haughty and
indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. The
cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir Le-
icester married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob
Stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and
lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.
Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this
dismal night when the step on the Ghost’s Walk (inaudible here, how-
ever) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the cold. It is
near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house, raising
ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. Bedroom candlesticks

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bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins yawn on otto-
mans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water tray, cousins
rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the fire. Standing
on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there are two), Sir Leicester.
On the opposite side of the broad hearth, my Lady at her table.
Volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair
between them. Sir Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at
the rouge and the pearl necklace.
“I occasionally meet on my staircase here,” drawls Volumnia, whose
thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long evening
of very desultory talk, “one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever
saw in my life.”
“A protegee of my Lady’s,” observes Sir Leicester.
“I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have
picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty
perhaps,” says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, “but in its
way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!”
Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the rouge,
appears to say so too.
“Indeed,” remarks my Lady languidly, “if there is any uncommon
eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell’s, and not mine. Rosa is her
discovery.”
“Your maid, I suppose?”
“No. My anything; pet—secretary—messenger—I don’t know
what.”
“You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a
flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle—no, not a poodle,
though—or anything else that was equally pretty?” says Volumnia,
sympathizing. “Yes, how charming now! And how well that de-
lightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an im-
mense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is the dearest
friend I have, positively!”
Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper of
Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he
has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. So
he says, “You are right, Volumnia,” which Volumnia is extremely
glad to hear.

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“She has no daughter of her own, has she?”

“Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she
had two.”
My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly ag-
gravated by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candle-
sticks and heaves a noiseless sigh.
“And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the
present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening
of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions,” says Sir Leicester
with stately gloom, “that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn
that Mrs. Rouncewell’s son has been invited to go into Parliament.”
Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.
“Yes, indeed,” repeats Sir Leicester. “Into Parliament.”
“I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?”
exclaims Volumnia.
“He is called, I believe—an—ironmaster.” Sir Leicester says it slowly
and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is called a
lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word expres-
sive of some other relationship to some other metal.
Volumnia utters another little scream.
“He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr.
Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn
being always correct and exact; still that does not,” says Sir Leicester,
“that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange con-
siderations—startling considerations, as it appears to me.”
Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester
politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one,
and lights it at my Lady’s shaded lamp.
“I must beg you, my Lady,” he says while doing so, “to remain a
few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening
shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note”—Sir
Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it—”I am
bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour
of a short interview with yourself and myself on the subject of this
young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied
that we would see him before retiring.”
Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her

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hosts—O Lud!—well rid of the—what is it?—ironmaster!

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir Le-
icester rings the bell, “Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in
the housekeeper’s apartments, and say I can receive him now.”
My Lady, who has beard all this with slight attention outwardly,
looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty
perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a
broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a shrewd
though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in
black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a perfectly natural
and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence
into which he comes.
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for
intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you,
Sir Leicester.”
The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between
himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.
“In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places
that we are always on the flight.”
Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that
there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet
park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and the
gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the fern
and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has
dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much the prop-
erty of every Dedlock—while he lasted—as the house and lands. Sir
Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose and that of
Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.
“Lady Dedlock has been so kind,” proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with
a respectful glance and a bow that way, “as to place near her a young
beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with
Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and
to their becoming engaged if she will take him—which I suppose she
will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence
in my son’s good sense—even in love. I find her what
he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks

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of her with great commendation.”

“She in all respects deserves it,” says my Lady.
“I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not com-
ment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her.”
“That,” observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he
thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, “must be quite
unnecessary.”
“Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young man,
and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must
make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But
supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if
this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to
say at once—I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will under-
stand and excuse me—I should make it a condition that she did not
remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before communicating further with
my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any
way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him
for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is.”
Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir
Leicester’s old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the
iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a
shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his
whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.
“Am I to understand, sir,” says Sir Leicester, “and is my Lady to
understand”—he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of gal-
lantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on her
sense—”am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to
understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for
Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?”
“Certainly not, Sir Leicester,”
“I am glad to hear it.” Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.
“Pray, Mr. Rouncewell,” says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off
with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, “ex-
plain to me what you mean.”
“Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more.”
Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too
quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, how-

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ever habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture of

resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention, occa-
sionally slightly bending her head.
“I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my
childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century
and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those examples—
perhaps as good a one as there is—of love, and attachment, and fidel-
ity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of, but of
which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit,
because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides—on the
great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly.”
Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way,
but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently,
admits the justice of the ironmaster’s proposition.
“Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn’t have it
hastily supposed,” with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir Leices-
ter, “that I am ashamed of my mother’s position here, or wanting in
all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I certainly may have
desired—I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock—that my mother
should retire after so many years and end her days with me. But as I
have found that to sever this strong bond would be to break her
heart, I have long abandoned that idea.”
Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs.
Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days
with an ironmaster.
“I have been,” proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, “an ap-
prentice and a workman. I have lived on workman’s wages, years and
years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My
wife was a foreman’s daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three
daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being fortu-
nately able to give them greater advantages than we have had our-
selves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of our
great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station.”
A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in his
heart, “even of the Chesney Wold station.” Not a little more mag-
nificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.
“All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the

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class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal

marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son
will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in love,
say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked
in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first very possibly.
It may be that he had other views for his son. However, the chances
are that having ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished
character, he will say to his son, ‘I must be quite sure you are in
earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I
shall have this girl educated for two years,’ or it may be, ‘I shall place
this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during
which you will give me your word and honour to see her only so
often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited
by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are
both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you happy.’ I
know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I think they
indicate to me my own course now.”
Sir Leicester’s magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.
“Mr. Rouncewell,” says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the
breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted in
the gallery, “do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a—”
Here he resists a disposition to choke, “a factory?”
“I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very differ-
ent; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly
drawn between them.”
Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long
drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake.
“Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady—my
Lady—has placed near her person was brought up at the village school
outside the gates?”
“Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and
handsomely supported by this family.”
“Then, Mr. Rouncewell,” returns Sir Leicester, “the application of
what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.”
“Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say,” the
ironmaster is reddening a little, “that I do not regard the village school
as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son’s wife?”

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From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute,

to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of soci-
ety, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in conse-
quence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not mind-
ing their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are
called—necessarily and for ever, according to Sir Leicester’s rapid logic,
the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that,
to their educating other people out of their stations, and so obliterating
the landmarks, and opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is
the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.
“My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!” She
has given a faint indication of intending to speak. “Mr. Rouncewell,
our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of educa-
tion, and our views of—in short, all our views—are so diametrically
opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your
feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured
with my Lady’s notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself
from that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the
influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions—you will al-
low me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he
is not accountable for them to me—who may, in his peculiar opin-
ions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at
liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which
you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on
the young woman’s position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms;
and here we beg—if you will be so good—to leave the subject.”
The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but
she says nothing. He then rises and replies, “Sir Leicester and Lady
Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to
observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his
present inclinations. Good night!”
“Mr. Rouncewell,” says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a gentle-
man shining in him, “it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope your
time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself
to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.”
“I hope so,” adds my Lady.
“I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order

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to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time

in the morning.”
Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing
the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.
When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully
by the fire, and inattentive to the Ghost’s Walk, looks at Rosa, writ-
ing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.
“Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?”
“Oh! My Lady!”
My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling,
“Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson?”
“Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don’t know that I am in love
with him—yet.”
“Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves you, yet?”
“I think he likes me a little, my Lady.” And Rosa bursts into tears.
Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smooth-
ing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with
eyes so full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!
“Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are
attached to me.”
“Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I
wouldn’t do to show how much.”
“And I don’t think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa,
even for a lover?”
“No, my Lady! Oh, no!” Rosa looks up for the first time, quite
frightened at the thought.
“Confide in me, my child. Don’t fear me. I wish you to be happy,
and will make you so—if I can make anybody happy on this earth.”
Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My
Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with
her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own
two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa
softly withdraws; but still my Lady’s eyes are on the fire.
In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that
never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?
Or does she listen to the Ghost’s Walk and think what step does it
most resemble? A man’s? A woman’s? The pattering of a little child’s

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feet, ever coming on—on—on? Some melancholy influence is upon

her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon
the hearth so desolate?
Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before
dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir
Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and open-
ing of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, mani-
fested through Mrs. Rouncewell’s son. Not a cousin of the batch but
is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of William
Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a stake in the
country—or the pension list—or something—by fraud and wrong.
As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir Leices-
ter, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the
north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace. And
thus, with a clatter of maids and valets—for it is one appurtenance of
their cousinship that however difficult they may find it to keep them-
selves, they must keep maids and valets—the cousins disperse to the
four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day
shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the
cousins had been changed into leaves.

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CHAPTER XXIX

The Young Man

CHESNEY WOLD IS SHUT UP, carpets are rolled into great scrolls in cor-
ners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown
holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Dedlock
ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and around the
house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling down
with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener sweep
and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and
wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the shrill wind round
Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows rattle, and the chim-
neys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the points of view, and
move in funeral-wise across the rising grounds. On all the house there
is a cold, blank smell like the smell of a little church, though some-
thing dryer, suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there
in the long nights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them.
But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as Chesney
Wold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourn-
ing when it mourns, expecting when a Dedlock dies—the house in
town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much state
may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of
winter as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the
ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb
the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of Sir
Leicester’s in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Leicester is glad to
repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library,

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condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the

fine arts with a glance of approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient
and modern. Some of the Fancy Ball School in which art occasion-
ally condescends to become a master, which would be best catalogued
like the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As ‘“Three high-backed chairs,
a table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask,
one Spanish female’s costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss
Jogg the model, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote.” Or
“One stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian
senator’s dress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with
profile portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one Scimitar superbly
mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very
rare), and Othello.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate
business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Lady
pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as indifferent,
and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yet it may be that my
Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows it. It may be that
he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of compunc-
tion, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty and all the state and
brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest for what he
is set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it. Whether he be
cold and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made his duty,
whether absorbed in love of power, whether determined to have noth-
ing hidden from him in ground where he has burrowed among se-
crets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the splendour of
which he is a distant beam, whether he is always treasuring up slights
and offences in the affability of his gorgeous clients—whether he be
any of this, or all of this, it may be that my Lady had better have five
thousand pairs of fashionahle eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance,
than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and
his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees.
Sir Leicester sits in my Lady’s room—that room in which Mr.
Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce—particu-
larly complacent. My Lady, as on that day, sits before the fire with
her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly complacent be-
cause he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing

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directly on the floodgates and the framework of society. They apply

so happily to the late case that Sir Leicester has come from the library
to my Lady’s room expressly to read them aloud. “The man who
wrote this article,” he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire
as if he were nodding down at the man from a mount, “has a well-
balanced mind.”
The man’s mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my
Lady, who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid resigna-
tion of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught and falls
into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at Chesney
Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester, quite unconscious, reads
on through his double eye-glass, occasionally stopping to remove his
glass and express approval, as “Very true indeed,” “Very properly put,”
“I have frequently made the same remark myself,” invariably losing
his place after each observation, and going up and down the column
to find it again.
Sir Leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the
door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange announce-
ment, “The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy.”
Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, “The
young man of the name of Guppy?”
Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Guppy,
much discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of in-
troduction in his manner and appearance.
“Pray,” says Sir Leicester to Mercury, “what do you mean by an-
nouncing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see
the young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were
here, Sir Leicester.”
With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look
at the young man of the name of Guppy which plainly says, “What
do you come calling here for and getting me into a row?”
“It’s quite right. I gave him those directions,” says my Lady.
“Let the young man wait.”
“By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will
not interrupt you.” Sir Leicester in his gallantry retires, rather declin-
ing to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and majesti-

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cally supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive appearance.

Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant
has left the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. She
suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.
“That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a
little conversation,” returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed.
“You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?”
“Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended
to favour me with an answer.”
“And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversa-
tion unnecessary? Can you not still?”
Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent “No!” and shakes his head.
“You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after
all, that what you have to say does not concern me—and I don’t
know how it can, and don’t expect that it will—you will allow me to
cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to say, if
you please.”
My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards
the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the
name of Guppy.
“With your ladyship’s permission, then,” says the young man, “I
will now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in
my first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learnt the habit of
not committing myself in writing, and therefore I did not mention
to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I am connected
and in which my standing—and I may add income—is tolerably
good. I may now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name
of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln’s Inn, which may not
be altogether unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case
in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.”
My Lady’s figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She
has ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening.
“Now, I may say to your ladyship at once,” says Mr. Guppy, a
little emboldened, “it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce
that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct
I have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive—in fact,
almost blackguardly.”

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After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the con-

trary, and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds, “If it had been Jarndyce
and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship’s solicitor,
Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted
with Mr. Tulkinghorn—at least we move when we meet one another—
and if it had been any business of that sort, I should have gone to him.”
My Lady turns a little round and says, “You had better sit down.”
“Thank your ladyship.” Mr. Guppy does so. “Now, your lady-
ship”—Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has
made small notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve
him in the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it—”I—Oh, yes!—
I place myself entirely in your ladyship’s hands. If your ladyship was
to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn
of the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situa-
tion. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your
ladyship’s honour.”
My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the
screen, assures him of his being worth no complaint from her.
“Thank your ladyship,” says Mr. Guppy; “quite satisfactory. Now—
I—dash it!—The fact is that I put down a head or two here of the
order of the points I thought of touching upon, and they’re written
short, and I can’t quite make out what they mean. If your ladyship will
excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, I—”
Mr. Guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-
birds, to whom he says in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, I am
sure.” This does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. He
murmurs, growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now
close to his eyes, now a long way off, “C.S. What’s C.S. for? Oh!
C.S.! Oh, I know! Yes, to be sure!” And comes back enlightened.
“I am not aware,” says Mr. Guppy, standing midway between my
Lady and his chair, “whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of,
or to see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson.”
My Lady’s eyes look at him full. “I saw a young lady of that name
not long ago. This past autumn.”
“Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?” asks
Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and
scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda.

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 Dickens

My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.

“No.”
“Not like your ladyship’s family?”
“No.”
“I think your ladyship,” says Mr. Guppy, “can hardly remember
Miss Summerson’s face?”
“I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with me?”
“Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson’s
image imprinted on my ‘eart—which I mention in confidence—I
found, when I had the honour of going over your ladyship’s mansion
of Chesney Wold while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire
with a friend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson
and your ladyship’s own portrait that it completely knocked me over,
so much so that I didn’t at the moment even know what it was that
knocked me over. And now I have the honour of beholding your
ladyship near (I have often, since that, taken the liberty of looking at
your ladyship in your carriage in the park, when I dare say you was
not aware of me, but I never saw your ladyship so near), it’s really
more surprising than I thought it.”
Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been times, when
ladies lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within
call, when that poor life of yours would not have been worth a minute’s
purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at
this moment.
My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him
again what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her.
“Your ladyship,” replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his paper, “I
am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! ‘Mrs. Chadband.’ Yes.”
Mr. Guppy draws his chair a little forward and seats himself again.
My Lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of
graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady gaze.
“A—stop a minute, though!” Mr. Guppy refers again. “E.S. twice?
Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on.”
Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech
with, Mr. Guppy proceeds.
“Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson’s
birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because—which I

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mention in confidence—I know it in the way of my profession at

Kenge and Carboy’s. Now, as I have already mentioned to your lady-
ship, Miss Summerson’s image is imprinted on my ‘eart. If I could
clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that
having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship’s family she had
a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make a
sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more dedi-
cated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet
she hasn’t favoured them at all.”
A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady’s face.
“Now, it’s a very singular circumstance, your ladyship,” says Mr.
Guppy, “though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of
us professional men—which I may call myself, for though not ad-
mitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by Kenge
and Carboy, on my mother’s advancing from the principal of her
little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy—that I
have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who
brought Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of
her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship.”
Is the dead colour on my Lady’s face reflected from the screen which
has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if she
had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on her?
“Did your ladyship,” says Mr. Guppy, “ever happen to hear of
Miss Barbary?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Yes.”
“Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship’s family?”
My Lady’s lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.
“Not connected?” says Mr. Guppy. “Oh! Not to your ladyship’s
knowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes.” After each of these
interrogatories, she has inclined her head. “Very good! Now, this Miss
Barbary was extremely close—seems to have been extraordinarily close
for a female, females being generally (in common life at least) rather
given to conversation—and my witness never had an idea whether
she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only one, she
seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single point, and
she then told her that the little girl’s real name was not Esther
Summerson, but Esther Hawdon.”

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“My God!”
Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking him
through, with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same atti-
tude even to the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, her
brow a little contracted, but for the moment dead. He sees her con-
sciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple
over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great
effort, sees her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence
and of what he has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and
her dead condition seem to have passed away like the features of
those long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs,
which, struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a breath.
“Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?”
“I have heard it before.”
“Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship’s family?”
“No.”
“Now, your ladyship,” says Mr. Guppy, “I come to the last point of
the case, so far as I have got it up. It’s going on, and I shall gather it up
closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must know—if your
ladyship don’t happen, by any chance, to know already—that there
was found dead at the house of a person named Krook, near Chancery
Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great distress. Upon which law-
writer there was an inquest, and which law-writer was an anonymous
character, his name being unknown. But, your ladyship, I have discov-
ered very lately that that law-writer’s name was Hawdon.”
“And what is that to me?”
“Aye, your ladyship, that’s the question! Now, your ladyship, a
queer thing happened after that man’s death. A lady started up, a
disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of ac-
tion and went to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy
to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to have the boy pro-
duced in corroboration of this statement, I can lay my hand upon
him at any time.”
The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does not wish to
have him produced.
“Oh, I assure your ladyship it’s a very queer start indeed,” says Mr.
Guppy. “If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on

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her fingers when she took her glove off, you’d think it quite romantic.”
There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen.
My Lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again
with that expression which in other times might have been so dan-
gerous to the young man of the name of Guppy.
“It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind
him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did. He left a
bundle of old letters.”
The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes never
once release him.
“They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your lady-
ship, they will come into my possession.”
“Still I ask you, what is this to me?”
“Your ladyship, I conclude with that.” Mr. Guppy rises. “If you
think there’s enough in this chain of circumstances put together—in
the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your ladyship,
which is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been brought up by
Miss Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating Miss Summerson’s real name
to be Hawdon; in your ladyship’s knowing both these names very
well; and in Hawdon’s dying as he did—to give your ladyship a fam-
ily interest in going further into the case, I will bring these papers
here. I don’t know what they are, except that they are old letters: I
have never had them in my posession yet. I will bring those papers
here as soon as I get them and go over them for the first time with
your ladyship. I have told your
ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I should be placed
in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint was made, and all is
in strict confidence.”
Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy,
or has he any other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth,
of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they
hide? He is a match for my Lady there. She may look at him, but he
can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of his from
telling anything.
“You may bring the letters,” says my Lady, “if you choose.”
“Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and
honour,” says Mr. Guppy, a little injured.

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“You may bring the letters,” she repeats in the same tone, “if you—
please.”
“It shall he done. I wish your ladyship good day.”
On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and
clasped like an old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takes it to
her and unlocks it.
“Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of
that sort,” says Mr. Guppy, “and I couldn’t accept anything of the
kind. I wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all
the same.”
So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the
supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave
his Olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out.
As Sir Leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper, is
there no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make the
very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms, the very por-
traits frown, the very armour stir?
No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and shut out
throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued
indeed by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faint vibration to Sir
Leicester’s ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going upward from a wild
figure on its knees.
“O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as
my cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had
renounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!”

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CHAPTER XXX

Esther’s Narrative

RICHARD HAD BEEN GONE AWAY some time when a visitor came to pass
a few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt,
who, having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger
and having written to my guardian, “by her son Allan’s desire,” to
report that she had heard from him and that he was well “and sent his
kind remembrances to all of us,” had been invited by my guardian to
make a visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearly three weeks.
She took very kindly to me and was extremely confidential, so much
so that sometimes she almost made me uncomfortable. I had no
right, I knew very well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in
me, and I felt it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could
not quite help it.
She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands
folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to me
that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was her being
so upright and trim, though I don’t think it was that, because I
thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been the general ex-
pression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an old
lady. I don’t know what it was. Or at least if I do now, I thought I
did not then. Or at least—but it don’t matter.
Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me
into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair; and, dear
me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I was quite
low-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses from

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Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinn-willinwodd (if those are the

right names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite
fiery with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what
they were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly eulo-
gistic of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.
“So, Miss Summerson,” she would say to me with stately triumph,
“this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever my son
goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not have money,
but he always has what is much better—family, my dear.”
I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-
Kerrig in India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I
used to say it was a great thing to be so highly connected.
“It is, my dear, a great thing,” Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. “It
has its disadvantages; my son’s choice of a wife, for instance, is lim-
ited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family is limited
in much the same manner.”
Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much
as to assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance
between us notwithstanding.
“Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear,” she would say, and always with
some emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate
heart, “was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoorts
of MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in the
Royal Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of the
last representatives of two old families. With the blessing of heaven
he will set them up again and unite them with another old family.”
It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used to try,
only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because—but I need not be so
particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.
“My dear,” she said one night, “you have so much sense and you
look at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life
that it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family matters
of mine. You don’t know much of my son, my dear; but you know
enough of him, I dare say, to recollect him?”
“Yes, ma’am. I recollect him.”
“Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,
and I should like to have your opinion of him.”

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“Oh, Mrs. Woodcourt,” said I, “that is so difficult!”

“Why is it so difficult, my dear?” she returned. “I don’t see it myself.”
“To give an opinion—”
“On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. That’s true.”
I didn’t mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house
a good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guard-
ian. I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his pro-
fession—we thought—and that his kindness and gentleness to Miss
Flite were above all praise.
“You do him justice!” said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand.
“You define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in his profession
faultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I must confess he is
not without faults, love.”
“None of us are,” said I.
“Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to
correct,” returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head. “I am
so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear, as a
third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself.”
I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have
been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the
pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.
“You are right again, my dear,” the old lady retorted, “but I don’t
refer to his profession, look you.”
“Oh!” said I.
“No,” said she. “I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He is al-
ways paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has been,
ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has never really cared
for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any harm
or to express anything but politeness and good nature. Still, it’s not right,
you know; is it?”
“No,” said I, as she seemed to wait for me.
“And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear.”
I supposed it might.
“Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be
more careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. And
he has always said, ‘Mother, I will be; but you know me better than
anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm—in short, mean

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nothing.’ All of which is very true, my dear, but is no justification.

However, as he is now gone so far away and for an indefinite time,
and as he will have good opportunities and introductions, we may
consider this past and gone. And you, my dear,” said the old lady,
who was now all nods and smiles, “regarding your dear self, my love?”
“Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?”
“Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek
his fortune and to find a wife—when do you mean to seek your
fortune and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you!
Now you blush!”
I don’t think I did blush—at all events, it was not important if I
did—and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had
no wish to change it.
“Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to
come for you, my love?” said Mrs. Woodcourt.
“If you believe you are a good prophet,” said I.
“Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very
worthy, much older—five and twenty years, perhaps—than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy.”
“That is a good fortune,” said I. “But why is it to be mine?”
“My dear,” she returned, “there’s suitability in it—you are so busy,
and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there’s suitabil-
ity in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody, my love, will con-
gratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I shall.”
It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I
think it did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night
uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to
confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still.
I would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright
old lady’s confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me
the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was
a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth.
Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed
her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. And
after all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me?
Why could not I, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit
down by her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at

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least as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the
harmless things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I certainly
was, for I was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad
indeed that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual dis-
tress and pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over
again in twenty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in
our house, and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it
was better and safer somehow that she should be there than any-
where else? These were perplexities and contradictions that I could
not account for. At least, if I could—but I shall come to all that by
and by, and it is mere idleness to go on about it now.
So when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her but
was relieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down, and Caddy
brought such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant
occupation.
First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that
I was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, was no
news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. Then Caddy
told us that she was going to be married in a month and that if Ada
and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the
world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought we never
should have done talking about it, we had so much to say to Caddy,
and Caddy had so much to say to us.
It seemed that Caddy’s unfortunate papa had got over his bank-
ruptcy—”gone through the Gazette,” was the expression Caddy used,
as if it were a tunnel—with the general clemency and commiseration
of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in some blessed manner
without succeeding in understanding them, and had given up every-
thing he possessed (which was not worth much, I should think, to
judge from the state of the furniture), and had satisfied every one
concerned that he could do no more, poor man. So, he had been
honourably dismissed to “the office” to begin the world again. What
he did at the office, I never knew; Caddy said he was a “custom-
house and general agent,” and the only thing I ever understood about
that business was that when he wanted money more than usual he
went to the docks to look for it, and hardly ever found it.
As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this

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shorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton

Garden (where I found the children, when I afterwards went there,
cutting the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking them-
selves with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between him
and old Mr. Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble
and meek, had deferred to Mr. Turveydrop’s deportment so submis-
sively that they had become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr.
Turveydrop, thus familiarized with the idea of his son’s marriage,
had worked up his parental feelings to the height of contemplating
that event as being near at hand and had given his gracious consent to
the young couple commencing housekeeping at the academy in
Newman Street when they would.
“And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?”
“Oh! Poor Pa,” said Caddy, “only cried and said he hoped we might
get on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn’t say so before
Prince, he only said so to me. And he said, ‘My poor girl, you have
not been very well taught how to make a home for your husband,
but unless you mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you bad
better murder him than marry him—if you really love him.’”
“And how did you reassure him, Caddy?”
“Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low and
hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn’t help crying myself.
But I told him that I did mean it with all my heart and that I hoped
our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort
in of an evening and that I hoped and thought I could be a better
daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentioned Peepy’s com-
ing to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again and said the
children were Indians.”
“Indians, Caddy?”
“Yes,” said Caddy, “wild Indians. And Pa said”—here she began to
sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world—“that he
was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was their be-
ing all tomahawked together.”
Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby
did not mean these destructive sentiments.
“No, of course I know Pa wouldn’t like his family to be welter-
ing in their blood,” said Caddy, “but he means that they are very

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unfortunate in being Ma’s children and that he is very unfortunate

in being Ma’s husband; and I am sure that’s true, though it seems
unnatural to say so.”
I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was
fixed.
“Oh! You know what Ma is, Esther,” she returned. “It’s impos-
sible to say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often
enough; and when she is told it, she only gives me a placid look, as
if I was I don’t know what—a steeple in the distance,” said Caddy
with a sudden idea; “and then she shakes her head and says ‘Oh,
Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are!’ and goes on with the
Borrioboola letters.”
“And about your wardrobe, Caddy?” said I. For she was under no
restraint with us.
“Well, my dear Esther,’’ she returned, drying her eyes, “I must do
the best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind
remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question con-
cerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and
would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor cares.”
Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,
but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am
afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much
to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such
discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a
little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This was her staying
with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all
three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and sav-
ing, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of
her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was,
we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her
out again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could
be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found
in the docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. What my
guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it
would be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for
no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet. He agreed to this com-
promise, and if Caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy
when we sat down to work.
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She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not help
reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly
with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over
that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she, and my
darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town,
and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.
Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious “to learn housekeep-
ing,” as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of her learning house-
keeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I
laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when
she proposed it. However, I said, “Caddy, I am sure you are very
welcome to learn anything that you can learn of me, my dear,” and I
showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways. You
would have supposed that I was showing her some wonderful inven-
tions, by her study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever I
jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you
might have thought that there never was a greater imposter than I
with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby.
So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley,
and backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with
Ada, the three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy
to see what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained
behind to take care of my guardian.
When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished
lodging in Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three
times, where preparations were in progress too—a good many, I ob-
served, for enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few
for putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the
house—but our great point was to make the furnished lodging de-
cent for the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby before-
hand with some faint sense of the occasion.
The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room
(the back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with waste-
paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be
littered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking strong

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coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by appoint-

ment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a
decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby came
home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. There he
got something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and
then, feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about
Hatton Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambled up and
tumbled down the house as they had always been accustomed to do.
The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable
condition being quite out of the question at a week’s notice, I pro-
posed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we could on
her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should
confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama’s room, and a
clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal of attention,
the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably since I first
knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a dustman’s horse.
Thinking that the display of Caddy’s wardrobe would be the best
means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come
and look at it spread out on Caddy’s bed in the evening after the
unwholesome boy was gone.
“My dear Miss Summerson,” said she, rising from her desk with
her usual sweetness of temper, “these are really ridiculous prepara-
tions, though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness. There
is something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of Caddy
being married! Oh, Caddy, you silly, silly, silly puss!”
She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the
clothes in her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct
idea to her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head,
“My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might
have been equipped for Africa!”
On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether
this troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday.
And on my replying yes, she said, “Will my room be required, my
dear Miss Summerson? For it’s quite impossible that I can put my
papers away.”
I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted
and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere. “Well,

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my dear Miss Summerson,” said Mrs. Jellyby, “you know best, I dare
say. But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy has embarrassed me
to that extent, overwhelmed as I am with public business, that I don’t
know which way to turn. We have a Ramification meeting, too, on
Wednesday afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious.”
“It is not likely to occur again,” said I, smiling. “Caddy will be
married but once, probably.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Jellyby replied; “that’s true, my dear. I
suppose we must make the best of it!”
The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on the
occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely
from her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed it, occasionally
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior
spirit who could just bear with our trifling.
The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confu-
sion in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but
at length we devised something not very unlike what a common-
place mother might wear on such an occasion. The abstracted man-
ner in which Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to having this
attire tried on by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she
would then observe to me how sorry she was that I had not turned
my thoughts to Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour.
The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if
Mrs. Jellyby’s household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul’s or
Saint Peter’s, the sole advantage they would have found in the size of
the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to be
dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the family which it had
been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those prepara-
tions for Caddy’s marriage, that nothing which it had been possible
to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic object which
was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child’s knee to the door-
plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate upon it.
Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat
when he was at home with his head against the wall, became interested
when he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some order
among all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help. But such
wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were

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opened—bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby’s caps, letters,

tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood, wafers, sauce-
pan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags, footstools,
blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby’s bonnets, books with butter
sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out by being turned
upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells, heads and tails of
shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas—that he
looked frightened, and left off again. But he came regularly every evening
and sat without his coat, with his head against the wall, as though he
would have helped us if he had known how.
“Poor Pa!” said Caddy to me on the night before the great day, when we
really had got things a little to rights. “It seems unkind to leave him, Esther.
But what could I do if I stayed! Since I first knew you, I have tidied and tidied
over and over again, but it’s useless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole
house directly. We never have a servant who don’t drink. Ma’s ruinous to
everything.”
Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low
indeed and shed tears, I thought.
“My heart aches for him; that it does!” sobbed Caddy. “I can’t help
thinking to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with Prince,
and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma. What a
disappointed life!”
“My dear Caddy!” said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from
the wail. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three
words together.
“Yes, Pa!” cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him
affectionately.
“My dear Caddy,” said Mr. Jellyby. “Never have—”
“Not Prince, Pa?” faltered Caddy. “Not have Prince?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Jellyby. “Have him, certainly. But, never
have—”
I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that
Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after
dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He opened his
mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy
manner.
“What do you wish me not to have? Don’t have what, dear Pa?”

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asked Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.
“Never have a mission, my dear child.”
Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and this was
the only time I ever heard him make any approach to expressing his senti-
ments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose he had been more talk-
ative and lively once, but he seemed to have been completely exhausted
long before I knew him.
I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely looking
over her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelve o’clock
before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it
required then was so discouraging that Caddy, who was almost tired
out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried. But she soon
cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed.
In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quan-
tity of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay. The plain
breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectly charming.
But when my darling came, I thought—and I think now—that I
never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet’s.
We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put Peepy
at the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridal
dress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy cried to
think that she was going away from them and hugged them over and
over again until we brought Prince up to fetch her away—when, I
am sorry to say, Peepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop
downstairs, in a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly
blessing Caddy and giving my guardian to understand that his son’s
happiness was his own parental work and that he sacrificed personal
considerations to ensure it. “My dear sir,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “these
young people will live with me; my house is large enough for their
accommodation, and they shall not want the shelter of my roof. I
could have wished—you will understand the allusion, Mr. Jarndyce,
for you remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent—I could
have wished that my son had married into a family where there was
more deportment, but the will of heaven be done!”
Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party—Mr. Pardiggle, an ob-
stinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who was
always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs. Pardiggle’s

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mite, or their five boys’ mites. Mr. Quale, with his hair brushed back
as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was also there,
not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the accepted of a
young—at least, an unmarried—lady, a Miss Wisk, who was also
there. Miss Wisk’s mission, my guardian said, was to show the world
that woman’s mission was man’s mission and that the only genuine
mission of both man and woman was to be
always moving declaratory resolutions about things in general at public
meetings. The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs.
Jellyby’s, all devoted to public objects only. Besides those I have
mentioned, there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all
awry and the ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose
neglected home, Caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but
whose church was like a fancy fair. A very contentious gentleman,
who said it was his mission to be everybody’s brother but who ap-
peared to be on terms of coolness with the whole of his large family,
completed the party.
A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly
have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission as the
domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them;
indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat
down to breakfast, that the idea of woman’s mission lying chiefly in the
narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of her
tyrant, man. One other singularity was that nobody with a mission—
except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I have formerly said, was to
be in ecstasies with everybody’s mission—cared at all for anybody’s mis-
sion. Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear that the only one infallible course was
her course of pouncing upon the poor and applying benevolence to them
like a strait-waistcoat; as Miss Wisk was that the only practical thing for
the world was the emancipation of woman from the thraldom of her
tyrant, man. Mrs. Jellyby, all the while, sat smiling at the limited vision
that could see anything but Borrioboola-Gha.
But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the
ride home instead of first marrying Caddy. We all went to church,
and Mr. Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr.
Turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at
the clergyman like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into

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his wig, stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids dur-

ing the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough
to do it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as prepossessing in
appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceed-
ings, as part of woman’s wrongs, with a disdainful face. Mrs. Jellyby,
with her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned
of all the company.
We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head
of the table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously stolen
upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was
Turveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of being an agree-
able surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports of
kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent for but accede to
the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table. So he
came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in refer-
ence to the state of his pinafore, “Oh, you naughty Peepy, what a
shocking little pig you are!” was not at all discomposed. He was very
good except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I
had given him before we went to church) and would dip him head
first into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.
My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and
his amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial
company. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his,
or her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about
even that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my
guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy and the
honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.
What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think, for all
the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.
Turveydrop—and old Mr. Thrveydrop, in virtue of his deportment,
considering himself vastly superior to all the company—it was a very
unpromising case.
At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all
her property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take
her and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Caddy cling-
ing, then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother’s neck
with the greatest tenderness.

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“I am very sorry I couldn’t go on writing from dictation, Ma,”

sobbed Caddy. “I hope you forgive me now.”
“Oh, Caddy, Caddy!” said Mrs. Jellyby. “I have told you over and
over again that I have engaged a boy, and there’s an end of it.”
“You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you are
sure before I go away, Ma?”
“You foolish Caddy,” returned Mrs. Jellyby, “do I look angry, or
have I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? How can you?”
“Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!”
Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. “You romantic child,”
said she, lightly patting Caddy’s back. “Go along. I am excellent friends
with you. Now, good-bye, Caddy, and be very happy!”
Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against
hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place in
the hall. Her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief,
and sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall. I hope he
found some consolation in walls. I almost think he did.
And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emo-
tion and respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment
was overwhelming.
“Thank you over and over again, father!” said Prince, kissing his
hand. “I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration
regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy.”
“Very,” sobbed Caddy. “Ve-ry!”
“My dear son,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “and dear daughter, I have
done my duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and
looks down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will
be my recompense. You will not fail in your duty, my son and daugh-
ter, I believe?”
“Dear father, never!” cried Prince.
“Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!” said Caddy.
“This,” returned Mr. Turveydrop, “is as it should be. My children,
my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never
leave you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you contem-
plate an absence of a week, I think?”
“A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week.”
“My dear child,” said Mr. Turveydrop, “let me, even under the

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present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. It

is highly important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if
at all neglected, are apt to take offence.”
“This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner.”
“Good!” said Mr. Turveydrop. “You will find fires, my dear Caroline,
in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. Yes, yes,
Prince!” anticipating some self-denying objection on his son’s part
with a great air. “You and our Caroline will be strange in the upper
part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my apart-
ment. Now, bless ye!”
They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby
or at Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and my guardian were in
the same condition when we came to talk it over. But before we
drove away too, I received a most unexpected and eloquent compli-
ment from Mr. Jellyby. He came up to me in the hall, took both my
hands, pressed them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so
sure of his meaning that I said, quite flurried, “You are very welcome,
sir. Pray don’t mention it!”
“I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian,” said I when we
three were on our road home.
“I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see.”
“Is the wind in the east to-day?” I ventured to ask him.
He laughed heartily and answered, “No.”
“But it must have been this morning, I think,” said I.
He answered “No” again, and this time my dear girl confidently
answered “No” too and shook the lovely head which, with its bloom-
ing flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring. “Much
you know of east winds, my ugly darling,” said I, kissing her in my
admiration—I couldn’t help it.
Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a
long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it
gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind
where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went,
there was sunshine and summer air.

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CHAPTER XXXI

Nurse and Patient

I HAD NOT BEEN AT HOME again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley’s shoulder
and see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a
trying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power
over a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to become per-
versely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and
splash, and sidle into corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd to
see what old letters Charley’s young hand had made, they so wrinkled,
and shrivelled, and tottering, it so plump and round. Yet Charley
was uncommonly expert at other things and had as nimble little
fingers as I ever watched.
“Well, Charley,” said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in
which it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and col-
lapsed in all kinds of ways, “we are improving. If we only get to
make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley.”
Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn’t
join Charley’s neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.
“Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time.”
Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut
her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride and half in
doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.
“Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor per-
son of the name of Jenny?”
“A brickmaker’s wife, Charley? Yes.”

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“She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and
said you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn’t the young lady’s little
maid—meaning you for the young lady, miss—and I said yes, miss.”
“I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley.”
“So she had, miss, but she’s come back again to where she used to
live—she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name
of Liz, miss?”
“I think I do, Charley, though not by name.”
“That’s what she said!” returned Chariey. “They have both come
back, miss, and have been tramping high and low.”
“Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?”
“Yes, miss.” If Charley could only have made the letters in her
copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they
would have been excellent. “And this poor person came about the
house three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss—all
she wanted, she said—but you were away. That was when she saw
me. She saw me a-going about, miss,” said Charley with a short
laugh of the greatest delight and pride, “and she thought I looked
like your maid!”
“Did she though, really, Charley?”
“Yes, miss!” said Charley. “Really and truly.” And Charley, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired of
seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing
before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner,
and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the
pleasantest way.
“And where did you see her, Charley?” said I.
My little maid’s countenance fell as she replied, “By the doctor’s
shop, miss.” For Charley wore her black frock yet.
I asked if the brickmaker’s wife were ill, but Charley said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down
to Saint Albans and was tramping he didn’t know where. A poor
boy, Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. “Like as Tom
might have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father,” said
Charley, her round eyes filling with tears.
“And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?”

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“She said, miss,” returned Charley, “how that he had once done as
much for her.”
My little maid’s face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded
so closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no
great difficulty in reading her thoughts. “Well, Charley,” said I, “it
appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Jenny’s and see what’s the matter.”
The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, and
having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her
readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to any one,
went out.
It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. The
rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission for
many days. None was falling just then, however. The sky had partly
cleared, but was very gloomy—even above us, where a few stars were
shining. In the north and north-west, where the sun had set three hours
before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and awful; and into it
long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea stricken immovable as it
was heaving. Towards London a lurid glare overhung the whole dark
waste, and the contrast between these two lights, and the fancy which
the redder light engendered of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the
unseen buildings of the city and on all the faces of its many thousands
of wondering inhabitants, was as solemn as might be.
I had no thought that night—none, I am quite sure—of what was
soon to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when
we had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we
went upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impression of
myself as being something different from what I then was. I know it
was then and there that I had it. I have ever since connected the feeling
with that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot
and time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and
the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill.
It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the
place where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it
quieter than I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. The
kilns were burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-
blue glare.
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We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the

patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of
the little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the
poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported
by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He held under his
arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried to
warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook.
The place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very
peculiar smell.
I had not lifted by veil when I first spoke to the woman, which
was at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly
and stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.
His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evi-
dent that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.
“I won’t go no more to the berryin ground,” muttered the boy; “I
ain’t a-going there, so I tell you!”
I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voice, “Don’t mind him, ma’am. He’ll soon come back to his head,”
and said to him, “Jo, Jo, what’s the matter?”
“I know wot she’s come for!” cried the boy.
“Who?”
“The lady there. She’s come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won’t go to the berryin ground. I don’t like the
name on it. She might go a-berryin me.” His shivering came on again,
and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.
“He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma’am,”
said Jenny softly. “Why, how you stare! This is my lady, Jo.”
“Is it?” returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his
arm held out above his burning eyes. “She looks to me the t’other
one. It ain’t the bonnet, nor yet it ain’t the gownd, but she looks to
me the t’other one.”
My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness and
trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly
up to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse.
Except that no such attendant could have shown him Charley’s youth-
ful face, which seemed to engage his confidence.
“I say!” said the boy. “You tell me. Ain’t the lady the t’other lady?”

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Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about
him and made him as warm as she could.
“Oh!” the boy muttered. “Then I s’pose she ain’t.”
“I came to see if I could do you any good,” said I. “What is the
matter with you?”
“I’m a-being froze,” returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard
gaze wandering about me, “and then burnt up, and then froze, and
then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head’s all
sleepy, and all a-going mad-like—and I’m so dry—and my bones
isn’t half so much bones as pain.
“When did he come here?” I asked the woman.
“This morning, ma’am, I found him at the corner of the town. I
had known him up in London yonder. Hadn’t I, Jo?”
“Tom-all-Alone’s,” the boy replied.
Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it heavily,
and speak as if he were half awake.
“When did he come from London?” I asked.
“I come from London yes’day,” said the boy himself, now flushed
and hot. “I’m a-going somewheres.”
“Where is he going?” I asked.
“Somewheres,” repeated the boy in a louder tone. “I have been
moved on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since the t’other
one give me the sov’ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she’s always a-watching, and
a-driving of me—what have I done to her?—and they’re all a-watch-
ing and a-driving of me. Every one of ‘em’s doing of it, from the
time when I don’t get up, to the time when I don’t go to bed. And
I’m a-going somewheres. That’s where I’m a-going. She told me,
down in Tom-all-Alone’s, as she came from Stolbuns, and so I took
the Stolbuns Road. It’s as good as another.”
He always concluded by addressing Charley.
“What is to be done with him?” said I, taking the woman aside.
“He could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!”
“I know no more, ma’am, than the dead,” she replied, glancing
compassionately at him. “Perhaps the dead know better, if they could
only tell us. I’ve kept him here all day for pity’s sake, and I’ve given

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him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if any one will take
him in (here’s my pretty in the bed—her child, but I call it mine);
but I can’t keep him long, for if my husband was to come home and
find him here, he’d be rough in putting him out and might do him a
hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!”
The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got
up with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When
the little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took it
out of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don’t know. There
she was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were
living in Mrs. Blinder’s attic with Tom and Emma again.
The friend had been here and there, and had been played about
from hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was
too early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last
it was too late. One official sent her to another, and the other sent
her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it
appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in
evading their duties instead of performing them. And now, after all,
she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was fright-
ened too, “Jenny, your master’s on the road home, and mine’s not far
behind, and the Lord help the boy, for we can do no more for him!”
They put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his hand,
and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he shuffled
out of the house.
“Give me the child, my dear,” said its mother to Charley, “and
thank you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night!
Young lady, if my master don’t fall out with me, I’ll look down by
the kiln by and by, where the boy will be most like, and again in the
morning!” She hurried off, and presenfty we passed her hushing and
singing to her child at her own door and looking anxiously along the
road for her drunken husband.
I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest I should
bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we must not leave the
boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much better than I did, and
whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before me,
and presently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln.
I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle un-

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der his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still carried his
wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went bareheaded
through the rain, which now fell fast. He stopped when we called to
him and again showed a dread of me when I came up, standing with his
lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his shivering fit.
I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had
some shelter for the night.
“I don’t want no shelter,” he said; “I can lay amongst the warm
bricks.”
“But don’t you know that people die there?” replied Charley.
“They dies everywheres,” said the boy. “They dies in their
lodgings—she knows where; I showed her—and they dies down in
Tom-all-Alone’s in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according
to what I see.” Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, “If she ain’t the
t’other one, she ain’t the forrenner. Is there three of ‘em then?”
Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened at
myself when the boy glared on me so.
But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding
that he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight
home. It was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but
one man. I doubted if we should have got home without assistance,
the boy’s steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no com-
plaint, however, and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I
may say so strange a thing.
Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of
the window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could
be called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went
into the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr.
Skimpole, who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did
without notice, and never bringing any clothes with him, but always
borrowing everything he wanted.
They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants
had gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with
Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been
found in a ditch.
“This is a sorrowful case,” said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. “What
do you say, Harold?”
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“You had better turn him out,” said Mr. Skimpole.

“What do you mean?” inquired my guardian, almost sternly.
“My dear Jarndyce,” said Mr. Skimpole, “you know what I am: I am
a child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a constitutional objec-
tion to this sort of thing. I always had, when I was a medical man. He’s
not safe, you know. There’s a very bad sort of fever about him.”
Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room
again and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we
stood by.
“You’ll say it’s childish,” observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily at us.
“Well, I dare say it may be; but I am a child, and I never pretend to be
anything else. If you put him out in the road, you only put him where he
was before. He will be no worse off than he was, you know. Even make
him better off, if you like. Give him sixpence, or five shillings, or five
pound ten—you are arithmeticians, and I am not—and get rid of him!”
“And what is he to do then?” asked my guardian.
“Upon my life,” said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with
his engaging smile, “I have not the least idea what he is to do then.
But I have no doubt he’ll do it.”
“Now, is it not a horrible reflection,” said my guardian, to whom
I had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, “is
it not a horrible reflection,” walking up and down and rumpling his
hair, “that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his
hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken
care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?”
“My dear Jarndyce,” returned Mr. Skimpole, “you’ll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why isn’t he a prisoner then?”
My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mix-
ture of amusement and indignation in his face.
“Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine,” said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. “It seems to
me that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more
respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and con-
sequently more of a certain sort of poetry.”
“I believe,” returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, “that

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there is not such another child on earth as yourself.”

“Do you really?” said Mr. Skimpole. “I dare say! But I confess I
don’t see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite—probably, when he is in a safer state of health,
he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young friend’s natural
dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young friend says in effect
to society, ‘I am hungry; will you have the goodness to produce your
spoon and feed me?’ Society, which has taken upon itself the general
arrangement of the whole system of spoons and professes to have a
spoon for our young friend, does not produce that spoon; and our
young friend, therefore, says ‘You really must excuse me if I seize it.’
Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected energy, which has a
certain amount of reason in it and a certain amount of romance; and
I don’t know but what I should be more interested in our young
friend, as an illustration of such a case, than merely as a poor vaga-
bond—which any one can be.”
“In the meantime,” I ventured to observe, “he is getting worse.”
“In the meantime,” said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, “as Miss
Summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting
worse. Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets
still worse.”
The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.
“Of course, little woman,” observed my guardian, tuming to me,
“I can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going
there to enforce it, though it’s a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it’s growing late, and is a very bad
night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the whole-
some loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till morn-
ing, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We’ll do that.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the
piano as we moved away. “Are you going back to our young friend?”
“Yes,” said my guardian.
“How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!” returned Mr.
Skimpole with playful admiration. “You don’t mind these things;
neither does Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go any-
where, and do anything. Such is will! I have no will at all—and no
won’t—simply can’t.”
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“You can’t recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?” said my

guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half angrily,
for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an accountable being.
“My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it’s impossible for him to do better than take it. You can
tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he sleeps
and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But it is
mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for
the administration of detail that she knows all about it.”
We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed
to do, which Charley explained to him again and which he received
with the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking
on at what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the
house carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleas-
ant to observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to
be a general impression among them that frequently calling him “Old
Chap” was likely to revive his spirits. Charley
directed the operations and went to and fro between the loft-room
and the house with such little stimulants and comforts as we thought
it safe to give him. My guardian himself saw him before he was left
for the night and reported to me when he returned to the growlery
to write a letter on the boy’s behalf, which a messenger was charged
to deliver at day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and
inclined to sleep. They had fastened his door on the outside, he said,
in case of his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not
make any noise without being heard.
Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic airs
and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with great
expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the drawing-room he
said he would give us a little ballad which had come into his head
“apropos of our young friend,” and he sang one about a peasant boy,

“Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,

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Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home.”

quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he told us.
He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely
chirped—those were his delighted words—when he thought by what
a happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in his
glass of negus, “Better health to our young friend!” and supposed
and gaily pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington to
become Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he would
establish the Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses,
and a little annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no
doubt, he said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way,
but his way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold Skimpole
was, Harold Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable sur-
prise, when he first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted
himself with all his failings and had thought it sound philosophy to
make the best of the bargain; and he hoped we would do the same.
Charley’s last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see, from
my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and I
went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.
There was more movement and more talking than usual a little
before daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of
my window and asked one of our men who had been among the
active sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about
the house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.
“It’s the boy, miss,” said he.
“Is he worse?” I inquired.
“Gone, miss.
“Dead!”
“Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off.”
At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, and
the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that
he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an
empty cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if that were
so; and it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind
was missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to

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the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and
that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imagi-
nary horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all
of us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in
his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend
that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him,
and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off.
Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women
were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and no-
body could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had for
some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit
of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and
stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the
boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing was
seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From the time when he was
left in the loft-room, he vanished.
The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased
even then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current
very memorable to me.
As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening,
and as I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. Looking
up, I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.
“Charley,” said I, “are you so cold?”
“I think I am, miss,” she replied. “I don’t know what it is. I can’t
hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same
time, miss. Don’t be uneasy, I think I’m ill.”
I heard Ada’s voice outside, and I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and
locked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet
upon the key.
Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, “Not now, my dearest.
Go away. There’s nothing the matter; I will come to you presently.”
Ah! It was a long, long time before my darling girl and I were com-
panions again.
Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her to my
room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. I

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told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it was necessary that I
should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above
all. At first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and
even reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long letter
saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as
she loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer
than the garden. After that she came beneath the window even oftener
than she had come to the door, and if I had learnt to love her dear
sweet voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn
to love it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain listening
and replying, but not so much as looking out! How did I learn to
love it afterwards, when the harder time came!
They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the
door wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had
vacated that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy.
There was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that
they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day
or night without the least fear or unwillingness, but I thought it best
to choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada and whom
I could trust to come and go with all precaution. Through her means
I got out to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of
meeting Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any
more than in any other respect.
And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy
danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day and
night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such a
gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holding her head in
my arms—repose would come to her, so, when it would come to her
in no other attitude—I silently prayed to our Father in heaven that I
might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught me.
I was very sorrowful to think that Charley’s pretty looks would
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered—she was such a child
with her dimpled face—but that thought was, for the greater part, lost
in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and her mind rambled
again to the cares of her father’s sick bed and the little children, she still
knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my arms when she could
lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the wanderings of her mind

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less restlessly. At those times I used to think, how should I ever tell the
two remaining babies that the baby who had learned of her faithful
heart to be a mother to them in their need was dead!
There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to
me, telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she
was sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times
Charley would speak to me of what she had read to her father as well
as she could to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be
buried who was the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of
the ruler’s daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of
death. And Charley told me that when her father died she had kneeled
down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised
up and given back to his poor children, and that if she should never
get better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might
come into Tom’s mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would
I show Tom how these people of old days had been brought back to
life on earth, only that we might know our hope to
be restored to heaven!
But of all the various times there were in Charley’s illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. And
there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last high
belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in God, on the
part of her poor despised father.
And Charley did not die. She flutteringiy and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend.
The hope that never had been given, from the first, of Charley being
in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to be encour-
aged; and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into her old
childish likeness again.
It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening, I
felt that I was stricken cold.
Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her
illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I felt at tea-
time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was rapidly

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following in Charley’s steps.

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling’s cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk with
her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression that I had
been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside myself,
though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at times—with a
curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too large altogether.
In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charley, with which view I said, “You’re getting quite strong, Char-
ley, are you not?’
“Oh, quite!” said Charley.
“Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?”
“Quite strong enough for that, miss!” cried Charley. But Charley’s
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in MY face;
and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom, and
said “Oh, miss, it’s my doing! It’s my doing!” and a great deal more
out of the fullness of her grateful heart.
“Now, Charley,” said I after letting her go on for a little while, “if
I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. And
unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for
yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.”
“If you’ll let me cry a little longer, miss,” said Charley. “Oh, my
dear, my dear! If you’ll only let me cry a little longer. Oh, my dear!”—
how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she clung to
my neck, I never can remember without tears—”I’ll be good.”
So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.
“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Charley quietly. “I am
listening to everything you say.”
“It’s very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don’t think I am well and that you are going to nurse
me.”
For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. “And in
the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not
be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Char-
ley, and say I am asleep—that I have rather tired myself, and am
asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let
no one come.”

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Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I have
a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day, and of
day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first morning
to get to the window and speak to my darling.
On the second morning I heard her dear voice—Oh, how dear
now!—outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, “Don’t disturb her, Charley, for the world!”
“How does my own Pride look, Charley?” I inquired.
“Disappointed, miss,” said Charley, peeping through the curtain.
“But I know she is very beautiful this morning.”
“She is indeed, miss,” answered Charley, peeping. “Still looking
up at the window.”
With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!
I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.
“Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her
way into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to
the last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for
one moment as I lie here, I shall die.”
“I never will! I never will!” she promised me.
“I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me
for a little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Charley; I am blind.”

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CHAPTER XXXII

The Appointed Time

IT IS NIGHT IN LINCOLN’S INN—perplexed and troublous valley of the

shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day—and
fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down
the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings at nine
o’clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the gates are
shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty power of
sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase windows clogged
lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with a fathomless pocket
for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at the stars. In dirty
upper casements, here and there, hazy little patches of candlelight
reveal where some wise draughtsman and conveyancer yet toils for
the entanglement of real estate in meshes of sheep-skin, in the aver-
age ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an acre of land. Over which
bee-like industry these benefactors of their species linger yet, though
office-hours be past, that they may give, for every day, some good
account at last.
In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag
and bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and
supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons, engaged
with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek, have been
lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for some hours
and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the confusion of
passengers—Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now exchanged
congratulations on the children being abed, and they still linger on a

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door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krook and his lodger, and
the fact of Mr. Krook’s being “continually in liquor,” and the testa-
mentary prospects of the young man are, as usual, the staple of their
conversation. But they have something to say, likewise, of the Har-
monic Meeting at the Sol’s Arms, where the sound of the piano
through the partly opened windows jingles out into the court, and
where Little Swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar like
a very Yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a concerted
piece and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons to “Listen,
listen, listen, tew the wa-ter fall!” Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper com-
pare opinions on the subject of the young lady of professional celeb-
rity who assists at the Harmonic Meetings and who has a space to
herself in the manuscript announcement in the window, Mrs. Perkins
possessing information that she has been married a year and a half,
though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren, and that
her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol’s Arms every night to
receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. “Sooner
than which, myself,” says Mrs. Perkins, “I would get my living by
selling lucifers.” Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the same opin-
ion, holding that a private station is better than public applause, and
thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication, Mrs. Perkins’)
respectability. By this time the pot-boy of the Sol’s Arms appearing
with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piper accepts that tankard
and retires indoors, first giving a fair good night to Mrs. Perkins,
who has had her own pint in her hand ever since it was fetched from
the same hostelry by young Perkins before he was sent to bed. Now
there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court and a smell
as of the smoking of pipes; and shooting stars are seen in upper win-
dows, further indicating retirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman
begins to push at doors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles;
and to administer his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is either
robbing or being robbed.
It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, and
there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine steaming
night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome trades, the sew-
erage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and give the regis-
trar of deaths some extra business. It may be something in the air—

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there is plenty in it—or it may be something in himself that is in

fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, is very ill at ease. He comes
and goes between his own room and the open street door twenty
times an hour. He has been doing so ever since it fell dark. Since the
Chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early to-night, Mr.
Weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight
velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all
proportion), oftener than before.
It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too,
for he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the
secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which he is a
partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsby haunts what
seems to be its fountain-head—the rag and bottle shop in the court.
It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even now, coming round by
the Sol’s Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out
at the Chancery Lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated
after-supper stroll of ten minutes’ long from his own door and back
again, Mr. Snagsby approaches.
“What, Mr. Weevle?” says the stationer, stopping to speak. “Are
you there?”
“Aye!” says Weevle, “Here I am, Mr. Snagsby.”
“Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?” the
stationer inquires.
“Why, there’s not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not
very freshening,” Weevle answers, glancing up and down the court.
“Very true, sir. Don’t you observe,” says Mr. Snagsby, pausing to
sniff and taste the air a little, “don’t you observe, Mr. Weevle, that
you’re—not to put too fine a point upon it—that you’re rather greasy
here, sir?”
“Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in
the place to-night,” Mr. Weevle rejoins. “I suppose it’s chops at the
Sol’s Arms.”
“Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?” Mr. Snagsby sniffs and
tastes again. “Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at
the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning ‘em, sir!
And I don’t think”—Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again and then
spits and wipes his mouth—”I don’t think—not to put too fine a

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point upon it—that they were quite fresh when they were shown
the gridiron.”
“That’s very likely. It’s a tainting sort of weather.”
“It is a tainting sort of weather,” says Mr. Snagsby, “and I find it
sinking to the spirits.”
“By George! I find it gives me the horrors,” returns Mr. Weevle.
“Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome
room, with a black circumstance hanging over it,” says Mr. Snagsby,
looking in past the other’s shoulder along the dark passage and then
falling back a step to look up at the house. “I couldn’t live in that
room alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and worried of an
evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come to the door and
stand here sooner than sit there. But then it’s very true that you didn’t
see, in your room, what I saw there. That makes a difference.”
“I know quite enough about it,” returns Tony.
“It’s not agreeable, is it?” pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing his cough
of mild persuasion behind his hand. “Mr. Krook ought to consider it
in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure.”
“I hope he does,” says Tony. “But I doubt it.”
“You find the rent too high, do you, sir?” returns the stationer.
“Rents are high about here. I don’t know how it is exactly, but the
law seems to put things up in price. Not,” adds Mr. Snagsby with his
apologetic cough, “that I mean to say a word against the profession I
get my living by.”
Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at
the stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upward
for a star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his
way out of this conversation.
“It’s a curious fact, sir,” he observes, slowly rubbing his hands,
“that he should have been—”
“Who’s he?” interrupts Mr. Weevle.
“The deceased, you know,” says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his head
and right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance
on the button.
“Ah, to be sure!” returns the other as if he were not over-fond of
the subject. “I thought we had done with him.”
“I was only going to say it’s a curious fact, sir, that he should have

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come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that you
should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Which
there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,” says
Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may have unpolitely
asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle, “because I have known
writers that have gone into brewers’ houses and done really very re-
spectable indeed. Eminently respectable, sir,” adds Mr. Snagsby with
a misgiving that he has not improved the matter.
“It’s a curious coincidence, as you say,” answers Weevle, once more
glancing up and down the court.
“Seems a fate in it, don’t there?” suggests the stationer.
“There does.”
“Just so,” observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough. “Quite
a fate in it. Quite a fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am afraid I must bid you
good night”—Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made him desolate to go,
though he has been casting about for any means of escape ever since
he stopped to speak—”my little woman will be looking for me else.
Good night, sir!”
If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble
of looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. His
little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol’s Arms all this
time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped
over her head, honourmg Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a search-
ing glance as she goes past.
“You’ll know me again, ma’am, at all events,” says Mr. Weevle to
himself; “and I can’t compliment you on your appearance, whoever
you are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow never
coming!”
This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds up
his finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street door.
Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Guppy (for it is
he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the back room, they
speak low.
“I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of coming
here,” says Tony.
“Why, I said about ten.”
“You said about ten,” Tony repeats. “Yes, so you did say about ten.

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But according to my count, it’s ten times ten—it’s a hundred o’clock.

I never had such a night in my life!”
“What has been the matter?”
“That’s it!” says Tony. “Nothing has been the matter. But here have I
been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I have had the horrors
falling on me as thick as hail. There’s a blessed-looking candle!” says Tony,
pointing to the heavily burning taper on his table with a great cabbage head
and a long winding-sheet.
“That’s easily improved,” Mr. Guppy observes as he takes the snuff-
ers in hand.
“Is it?” returns his friend. “Not so easily as you think. It has been
smouldering like that ever since it was lighted.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Tony?” inquires Mr. Guppy,
looking at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on
the table.
“William Guppy,” replies the other, “I am in the downs. It’s this
unbearably dull, suicidal room—and old Boguey downstairs, I sup-
pose.” Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him with
his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the fender, and
looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightly tosses his head
and sits down on the other side of the table in an easy attitude.
“Wasn’t that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?”
“Yes, and he—yes, it was Snagsby,” said Mr. Weevle, altering the
construction of his sentence.
“On business?”
“No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped to
prose.”
“I thought it was Snagsby,” says Mr. Guppy, “and thought it as well
that he shouldn’t see me, so I waited till he was gone.”
“There we go again, William G.!” cried Tony, looking up for an
instant. “So mysterious and secret! By George, if we were going to
commit a murder, we couldn’t have more mystery about it!”
Mr. Guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing the
conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round the
room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating his survey
with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelf, in which she
is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the terrace, and a

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vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, and a prodi-
gious piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the prodigious
piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm.
“That’s very like Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Guppy. “It’s a speak-
ing likeness.”
“I wish it was,” growls Tony, without changing his position. “I
should have some fashionable conversation, here, then.”
Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a
more sociable humour, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used
tack and remonstrates with him.
“Tony,” says he, “I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for
no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than
I do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man
who has an unrequited image imprinted on his ‘eart. But there are
bounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question,
and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don’t think your manner
on the present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly.”
“This is strong language, William Guppy,” returns Mr. Weevle.
“Sir, it may be,” retorts Mr. William Guppy, “but I feel strongly
when I use it.”
Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William
Guppy to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, however,
having got the advantage, cannot quite release it without a little more
injured remonstrance.
“No! Dash it, Tony,” says that gentleman, “you really ought to be
careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited
image imprinted on his ‘eart and who is not altogether happy in those
chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony, possess
in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and allure the taste.
It is not—happily for you, perhaps, and I may wish that I could say
the same—it is not your character to hover around one flower. The
ole garden is open to you, and your airy pinions carry you through it.
Still, Tony, far be it from me, I am sure, to wound even your feelings
without a cause!”
Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued,
saying emphatically, “William Guppy, drop it!” Mr. Guppy acqui-
esces, with the reply, “I never should have taken it up, Tony, of my
own accord.”
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“And now,” says Tony, stirring the fire, “touching this same bundle
of letters. Isn’t it an extraordinary thing of Krook to have appointed
twelve o’clock to-night to hand ‘em over to me?”
“Very. What did he do it for?”
“What does he do anything for? He don’t know. Said to-day was
his birthday and he’d hand ‘em over to-night at twelve o’clock. He’ll
have drunk himself blind by that time. He has been at it all day.”
“He hasn’t forgotten the appointment, I hope?”
“Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. I saw
him to-night, about eight—helped him to shut up his shop—and he
had got the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off and showed
‘em me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of his cap,
hung his cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over before
the fire. I heard him a little while afterwards, through the floor here,
humming like the wind, the only song he knows—about Bibo, and
old Charon, and Bibo being drunk when he died, or something or
other. He has been as quiet since as an old rat asleep in his hole.”
“And you are to go down at twelve?”
“At twelve. And as I tell you, when you came it seemed to me a
hundred.”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy after considering a little with his legs
crossed, “he can’t read yet, can he?”
“Read! He’ll never read. He can make all the letters separately, and
he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got on
that much, under me; but he can’t put them together. He’s too old
to acquire the knack of it now—and too drunk.”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, “how
do you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?”
“He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye he
has and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things
by eye alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of a letter,
and asked me what it meant.”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again,
“should you say that the original was a man’s writing or a woman’s?”
“A woman’s. Fifty to one a lady’s—slopes a good deal, and the end
of the letter ‘n,’ long and hasty.”
Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue,

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generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. As
he is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. It
takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast.
“Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Is
there a chimney on fire?”
“Chimney on fire!”
“Ah!” returns Mr. Guppy. “See how the soot’s falling. See here, on
my arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the stuff, it won’t
blow off—smears like black fat!”
They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door,
and a little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. Comes back and
says it’s all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he lately made
to Mr. Snagsby about their cooking chops at the Sol’s Arms.
“And it was then,” resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing with
remarkable aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue their
conversation before the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the
table, with their heads very near together, “that he told you of his
having taken the bundle of letters from his lodger’s portmanteau?”
“That was the time, sir,” answers Tony, faintly adjusting his whis-
kers. “Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Honourable
William Guppy, informing him of the appointment for to-night
and advising him not to call before, Boguey being a slyboots.”
The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually as-
sumed by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he abandons
that and his whiskers together, and after looking over his shoulder,
appears to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.
“You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare,
and to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That’s
the arrangement, isn’t it, Tony?” asks Mr. Guppy, anxiously biting
his thumb-nail.
“You can’t speak too low. Yes. That’s what he and I agreed.”
“I tell you what, Tony—”
“You can’t speak too low,” says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy nods
his sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper.
“I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make another packet
like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real one while it’s in my
possession, you can show him the dummy.”

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“And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which

with his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more
likely than not,” suggests Tony.
“Then we’ll face it out. They don’t belong to him, and they never
did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands—a legal
friend of yours—for security. If he forces us to it, they’ll be produc-
ible, won’t they?”
“Ye-es,” is Mr. Weevle’s reluctant admission.
“Why, Tony,” remonstrates his friend, “how you look! You don’t
doubt William Guppy? You don’t suspect any harm?”
“I don’t suspect anything more than I know, William,” returns the
other gravely.
“And what do you know?” urges Mr. Guppy, raising his voice a
little; but on his friend’s once more warning him, “I tell you, you
can’t speak too low,” he repeats his question without any sound at
all, forming with his lips only the words, “What do you know?”
“I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering in
secrecy, a pair of conspirators.”
“Well!” says Mr. Guppy. “And we had better be that than a pair of
noodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, for it’s
the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly?”
“Secondly, it’s not made out to me how it’s likely to be profitable,
after all.”
Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock over
the mantelshelf and replies, “Tony, you are asked to leave that to the
honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to serve that friend
in those chords of the human mind which—which need not be called
into agonizing vibration on the present occasion—your friend is no
fool. What’s that?”
“It’s eleven o’clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul’s. Listen and
you’ll hear all the bells in the city jangling.”
Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant, re-
sounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various than
their situations. When these at length cease, all seems more mysterious
and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of whispering is that it
seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence, haunted by the ghosts of
sound—strange cracks and tickings, the rustling of garments that have

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no substance in them, and the tread of dreadful feet that would leave
no mark on the sea-sand or the winter snow. So sensitive the two
friends happen to be that the air is full of these phantoms, and the two
look over their shoulders by one consent to see that the door is shut.
“Yes, Tony?” says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fire and biting
his unsteady thumb-nail. “You were going to say, thirdly?”
“It’s far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in
the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it.”
“But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony.”
“May be not, still I don’t like it. Live here by yourself and see how
you like it.”
“As to dead men, Tony,” proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this pro-
posal, “there have been dead men in most rooms.”
“I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and—
and they let you alone,” Tony answers.
The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried
remark to the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service,
that he hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, by
stirring the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart had
been stirred instead.
“Fah! Here’s more of this hateful soot hanging about,” says he.
“Let us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It’s too
close.”
He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half in and
half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to admit
of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking up, but
lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of distant
carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir of men, they
find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy, noiselessly tapping on the win-
dow-sill, resumes his whisperirig in quite a light-comedy tone.
“By the by, Tony, don’t forget old Smallweed,” meaning the younger of
that name. “I have not let him into this, you know. That grandfather of his
is too keen by half. It runs in the family.”
“I remember,” says Tony. “I am up to all that.”
“And as to Krook,” resumes Mr. Guppy. “Now, do you suppose
he really has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he has
boasted to you, since you have been such allies?”

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Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know. Can’t Imagine. If we get

through this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall be better
informed, no doubt. How can I know without seeing them, when
he don’t know himself? He is always spelling out words from them,
and chalking them over the table and the shop-wall, and asking what
this is and what that is; but his whole stock from beginning to end
may easily be the waste-paper he bought it as, for anything I can say.
It’s a monomania with him to think he is possessed of documents.
He has been going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century,
I should judge, from what he tells me.”
“How did he first come by that idea, though? That’s the ques-
tion,” Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic
meditation. “He may have found papers in something he bought,
where papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his
shrewd head from the manner and place of their concealment that
they are worth something.”
“Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he
may have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he
has got, and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor’s
Court and hearing of documents for ever,” returns Mr. Weevle.
Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and bal-
ancing all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to
tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily
draws his hand away.
“What, in the devil’s name,” he says, “is this! Look at my fingers!”
A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch
and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil
with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder.
“What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring
out of window?”
“I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have
been here!” cries the lodger.
And yet look here—and look here! When he brings the candle
here, from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps
away down the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool.
“This is a horrible house,” says Mr. Guppy, shutting down the
window. “Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off.”

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He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that
he has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood
silently before the fire when Saint Paul’s bell strikes twelve and all
those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various heights in
the dark air, and in their many tones. When all is quiet again, the
lodger says, “It’s the appointed time at last. Shall I go?”
Mr. Guppy nods and gives him a “lucky touch” on the back, but
not with the washed hand, though it is his right hand.
He goes downstairs, and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself be-
fore the fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute
or two the stairs creak and Tony comes swiftly back.
“Have you got them?”
“Got them! No. The old man’s not there.”
He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his
terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him and asks loudly,
“What’s the matter?”
“I couldn’t make him hear, and I softly opened the door and looked
in. And the burning smell is there—and the soot is there, and the oil
is there—and he is not there!” Tony ends this with a groan.
Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go down, more dead than alive,
and holding one another, push open the door of the back shop. The
cat has retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, at some-
thing on the ground before the fire. There is a very little fire left in
the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocating vapour in the room
and a dark, greasy coating on the walls and ceiling. The chairs and
table, and the bottle so rarely absent from the table, all stand as usual.
On one chair-back hang the old man’s hairy cap and coat.
“Look!” whispers the lodger, pointing his friend’s attention to these
objects with a trembling finger. “I told you so. When I saw him last,
he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old letters, hung his
cap on the back of the chair—his coat was there already, for he had
pulled that off before he went to put the shutters up—and I left him
turning the letters over in his hand, standing just where that crumbled
black thing is upon the floor.”
Is he hanging somewhere? They look up. No.
“See!” whispers Tony. “At the foot of the same chair there lies a
dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That went round

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the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me, before he

began to turn them over, and threw it there. I saw it fall.”
“What’s the matter with the cat?” says Mr. Guppy. “Look at her!”
“Mad, I think. And no wonder in this evil place.”
They advance slowly, looking at all these things. The cat remains where
they found her, still snarling at the something on the ground before the
fire and between the two chairs. What is it? Hold up the light.
Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from a little
bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming to be steeped in
something; and here is—is it the cinder of a small charred and broken
log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, or is it coal? Oh, horror, he is
here! And this from which we run away, striking out the light and over-
turning one another into the street, is all that represents him.
Help, help, help! Come into this house for heaven’s sake! Plenty
will come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor of that court,
true to his title in his last act, has died the death of all lord chancellors
in all courts and of all authorities in all places under all names soever,
where false pretences are made, and where injustice is done. Call the
death by any name your Highness will, attribute it to whom you
will, or say it might have been prevented how you will, it is the same
death eternally—inborn, inbred, engendered in the corrupted
humours of the vicious body itself, and that only—spontaneous com-
bustion, and none other of all the deaths that can be died.

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Bleak House

CHAPTER XXXIII

Interlopers

NOW DO THOSE TWO GENTLEMEN not very neat about the cuffs and
buttons who attended the last coroner’s inquest at the Sol’s Arms reap-
pear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, breath-
lessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and institute
perquisitions through the court, and dive into the Sol’s parlour, and
write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. Now do they note
down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbourhood of Chan-
cery Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the
most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and
horrible discovery. Now do they set forth how it will doubtless be
remembered that some time back a painful sensation was created in
the public mind by a case of mysterious death from opium occurring
in the first floor of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general
marine store shop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far
advanced in life, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable coincidence,
Krook was examined at the inquest, which it may be recollected was
held on that occasion at the Sol’s Arms, a well-conducted tavern im-
mediately adjoining the premises in question on the west side and
licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr. James George Bogsby.
Now do they show (in as many words as possible) how during some
hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was observed by the
inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical occurrence which forms
the subject of that present account transpired; and which odour was at
one time so powerful that Mr. Swills, a comic vocalist professionally

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engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby, has himself stated to our reporter that he

mentioned to Miss M. Melvilleson, a lady of some pretensions to
musical ability, likewise engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series
of concerts called Harmonic Assemblies, or Meetings, which it would
appear are held at the Sol’s Arms under Mr. Bogsby’s direction pursu-
ant to the Act of George the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his
voice seriously affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jo-
cose expression at the time being that he was like an empty post-office,
for he hadn’t a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills is
entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in
the same court and known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper and
Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetid effluvia and regarded
them as being emitted from the premises in the occupation of Krook,
the unfortunate deceased. All this and a great deal more the two gentle-
men who have formed an amicable partnership in the melancholy ca-
tastrophe write down on the spot; and the boy population of the court
(out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the Sol’s Arms
parlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they are about it.
The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night, and
can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the ill-fated
house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued from her
chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a bed at the
Sol’s Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts its door all night,
for any kind of public excitement makes good for the Sol and causes
the court to stand in need of comfort. The house has not done so
much in the stomachic article of cloves or in brandy-and-water warm
since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy heard what had happened,
he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his shoulders and said, “There’ll
be a run upon us!” In the first outcry, young Piper dashed off for the
fire-engines and returned in triumph at a jolting gallop perched up
aloft on the Phoenix and holding on to that fabulous creature with all
his might in the midst of helmets and torches. One helmet remains
behind after careful investigation of all chinks and crannies and slowly
paces up and down before the house in company with one of the two
policemen who have likewise been left in charge thereof. To this trio
everybody in the court possessed of sixpence has an insatiate desire to
exhibit hospitality in a liquid form.

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Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Sol
and are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they will
only stay there. “This is not a time, says Mr. Bogsby, “to haggle
about money,” though he looks something sharply after it, over the
counter; “give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you’re welcome
to whatever you put a name to.”
Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put
names to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult
to put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate to
all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it, and of
what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw. Mean-
while, one or other of the policemen often flits about the door, and
pushing it open a little way at the full length of his arm, looks in
from outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions, but that he may
as well know what they are up to in there.
Thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out of
bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated,
still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little money
left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with slow-retreating steps
departs, and the lamp-lighter going his rounds, like an executioner to
a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire that have aspired to
lessen the darkness. Thus the day cometh, whether or no.
And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that the
court has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have fallen
drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard floors instead
of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the very court itself
looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood, waking up and
beginning to hear of what has happened, comes streaming in, half
dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen and the helmet
(who are far less impressible externally than the court) have enough
to do to keep the door.
“Good gracious, gentlemen!” says Mr. Snagsby, coming up.
“What’s this I hear!”
“Why, it’s true,” returns one of the policemen. “That’s what it is.
Now move on here, come!”
“Why, good gracious, gentlemen,” says Mr. Snagsby, somewhat
promptly backed away, “I was at this door last night betwixt ten and

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eleven o’clock in conversation with the young man who lodges here.”
“Indeed?” returns the policeman. “You will find the young man
next door then. Now move on here, some of you,”
“Not hurt, I hope?” says Mr. Snagsby.
“Hurt? No. What’s to hurt him!”
Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his
troubled mind, repairs to the Sol’s Arms and finds Mr. Weevle languish-
ing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on him of exhausted
excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.
“And Mr. Guppy likewise!” quoth Mr. Snagsby. “Dear, dear, dear!
What a fate there seems in all this! And my lit—”
Mr. Snagsby’s power of speech deserts him in the formation of the
words “my little woman.” For to see that injured female walk into
the Sol’s Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the
beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit,
strikes him dumb.
“My dear,” says Mr. Snagsby when his tongue is loosened, “will
you take anything? A little—not to put too fine a point upon it—
drop of shrub?”
“No,” says Mrs. Snagsby.
“My love, you know these two gentlemen?”
“Yes!” says Mrs. Snagsby, and in a rigid manner acknowledges their
presence, still fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye.
The devoted Mr. Snagsby cannot bear this treatment. He takes
Mrs. Snagsby by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.
“My little woman, why do you look at me in that way? Pray don’t
do it.”
“I can’t help my looks,” says Mrs. Snagsby, “and if I could I
wouldn’t.”
Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, “Wouldn’t you
really, my dear?” and meditates. Then coughs his cough of trouble
and says, “This is a dreadful mystery, my love!” still fearfully discon-
certed by Mrs. Snagsby’s eye.
“It is,” returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, “a dreadful mystery.”
“My little woman,” urges Mr. Snagsby in a piteous manner, “don’t
for goodness’ sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look
at me in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to do it.

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Bleak House

Good Lord, you don’t suppose that I would go spontaneously com-

busting any person, my dear?”
“I can’t say,” returns Mrs. Snagsby.
On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby “can’t
say” either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may have
had something to do with it. He has had something—he don’t know
what—to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious that
it is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the
present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with his handker-
chief and gasps.
“My life,” says the unhappy stationer, “would you have any objec-
tions to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect in
your conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before breakfast?”
“Why do you come here?” inquires Mrs. Snagsby.
“My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which
has happened to the venerable party who has been—combusted.”
Mr. Snagsby has made a pause to suppress a groan. “I should then
have related them to you, my love, over your French roll.”
“I dare say you would! You relate everything to me, Mr. Snagsby.”
“Every—my lit—”
“I should be glad,” says Mrs. Snagsby after contemplating his in-
creased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, “if you would
come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Snagsby,
than anywhere else.”
“My love, I don’t know but what I may be, I am sure. I am ready
to go.”
Mr. Snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs.
Weevle and Guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfaction
with which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Snagsby
from the Sol’s Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not be
responsible for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is
the talk of the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into cer-
tainty by Mrs. Snagsby’s pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His mental
sufferings are so great that he entertains wandering ideas of delivering
himself up to justice and requiring to be cleared if
innocent and punished with the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast, step

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into Lincoln’s Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as
many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.
“There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony,”
says Mr. Guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides
of the square, “for a word or two between us upon a point on which
we must, with very little delay, come to an understanding.”
“Now, I tell you what, William G.!” returns the other, eyeing his
companion with a bloodshot eye. “If it’s a point of conspiracy, you
needn’t take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of that,
and I ain’t going to have any more. We shall have you taking fire next
or blowing up with a bang.”
This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr.
Guppy that his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, “Tony, I
should have thought that what we went through last night would
have been a lesson to you never to be personal any more as long as
you lived.” To which Mr. Weevle returns, “William, I should have
thought it would have been a lesson to you never to conspire any
more as long as you lived.” To which Mr. Guppy says, “Who’s con-
spiring?” To which Mr. Jobling replies, “Why, you are!” To which
Mr. Guppy retorts, “No, I am not.” To which Mr. Jobling retorts
again, “Yes, you are!” To which Mr. Guppy retorts, “Who says so?”
To which Mr. Jobling retorts, “I say so!” To which Mr. Guppy re-
torts, “Oh, indeed?” To which Mr. Jobling retorts, “Yes, indeed!”
And both being now in a heated state, they walk on silently for a
while to cool down again.
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy then, “if you heard your friend out in-
stead of flying at him, you wouldn’t fall into mistakes. But your
temper is hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself,
Tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye—”
“Oh! Blow the eye!” cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short. “Say
what you have got to say!”
Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr.
Guppy only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone
of injury in which he recommences, “Tony, when I say there is a
point on which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say
so quite apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. You
know it is professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are

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tried what facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it not desirable

that we should know what facts we are to prove on the inquiry into
the death of this unfortunate old mo—gentleman?” (Mr. Guppy
was going to say “mogul,” but thinks “gentleman” better suited to
the circumstances.)
“What facts? THE facts.”
“The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are”—Mr. Guppy tells
them off on his fingers—”what we knew of his habits, when you
saw him last, what his condition was then, the discovery that we
made, and how we made it.”
“Yes,” says Mr. Weevle. “Those are about the facts.”
“We made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his eccentric way,
an appointment with you at twelve o’clock at night, when you were to explain
some writing to him as you had often done before on account of his not being
able to read. I, spending the evening with you, was called down—and so forth.
The inquiry being only into the circumstances touching the death of the de-
ceased, it’s not necessary to go beyond these facts, I suppose you’ll agree?”
“No!” returns Mr. Weevle. “I suppose not.”
“And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?” says the injured Guppy.
“No,” returns his friend; “if it’s nothing worse than this, I
withdraw the observation.”
“Now, Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again and walking
him slowly on, “I should like to know, in a friendly way, whether
you have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing
to live at that place?”
“What do you mean?” says Tony, stopping.
“Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of
your continuing to live at that place?” repeats Mr. Guppy, walking
him on again.
“At what place? That place?” pointing in the direction of the rag
and bottle shop.
Mr. Guppy nods.
“Why, I wouldn’t pass another night there for any consideration
that you could offer me,” says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring.
“Do you mean it though, Tony?”
“Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I know
that,” says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.

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“Then the possibility or probability—for such it must be considered—

of your never being disturbed in possession of those effects lately belong-
ing to a lone old man who seemed to have no relation in the world, and
the certainty of your being able to find out what he really had got stored up
there, don’t weigh with you at all against last night, Tony, if I understand
you?” says Mr. Guppy, biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.
“Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow’s living there?” cries
Mr. Weevle indignantly. “Go and live there yourself.”
“Oh! I, Tony!” says Mr. Guppy, soothing him. “I have never lived
there and couldn’t get a lodging there now, whereas you have got one.”
“You are welcome to it,” rejoins his friend, “and—ugh!—you may
make yourself at home in it.”
“Then you really and truly at this point,” says Mr. Guppy, “give
up the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?”
“You never,” returns Tony with a most convincing steadfastness,
“said a truer word in all your life. I do!”
While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the
square, on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself mani-
fest to the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not so manifest
to the multitude, though sufficiently so to the two friends, for the
coach stops almost at their feet, are the venerable Mr. Smallweed and
Mrs. Smallweed, accompanied by their granddaughter Judy.
An air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tall
hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the younger) alights, Mr. Smallweed
the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. Guppy,
“How de do, sir! How de do!”
“What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the morn-
ing, I wonder!” says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his familiar.
“My dear sir,” cries Grandfather Smallweed, “would you do me a
favour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry me
into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sister bring their
grandmother along? Would you do an old man that good turn, sir?”
Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, “The public-
house in the court?” And they prepare to bear the venerable burden
to the Sol’s Arms.
“There’s your fare!” says the patriarch to the coachman with a fierce
grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. “Ask me for a penny more,

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and I’ll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dear young men, be
easy with me, if you please. Allow me to catch you round the neck. I
won’t squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me!
Oh, my bones!”
It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents an
apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. With
no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance
of divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he
fulils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman is
deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the Sol’s Arms.
“Oh, Lord!” gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breathless,
from an arm-chair. “Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, my
aches and pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scram-
bling poll-parrot! Sit down!”
This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a propen-
sity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds herself on
her feet to amble about and “set” to inanimate objects, accompanying
herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. A nervous affection
has probably as much to do with these demonstrations as any imbecile
intention in the poor old woman, but on the present occasion they are
so particularly lively in connexion with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow
to that in which Mr. Smallweed is seated, that she only quite desists
when her grandchildren have held her down in it, her lord in the mean-
while bestowing upon her, with great volubility, the endearing epithet
of “a pig-headed jackdaw,” repeated a surprising number of times.
“My dear sir,” Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing
Mr. Guppy, “there has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it,
either of you?”
“Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it.”
“You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, they discovered
it!”
The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return the com-
pliment.
“My dear friends,” whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out both
his hands, “I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melan-
choly office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed’s brother.”
“Eh?” says Mr. Guppy.

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“Mrs. Smallweed’s brother, my dear friend—her only relation. We

were not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never would
be on terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric—he was very
eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) I shall
take out letters of administration. I have come down to look after
the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. I have come
down,” repeats Grandfather Smallweed, hooking the air towards him
with all his ten fingers at once, “to look after the property.”
“I think, Small,” says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, “you might
have mentioned that the old man was your uncle.”
“You two were so close about him that I thought you would like
me to be the same,” returns that old bird with a secretly glistening
eye. “Besides, I wasn’t proud of him.”
“Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was
or not,” says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.
“He never saw me in his life to know me,” observed Small; “I
don’t know why I should introduce him, I am sure!”
“No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored,”
the old gentleman strikes in, “but I have come to look after the prop-
erty—to look over the papers, and to look after the property. We
shall make good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, over the way there, is so good
as to act as my solicitor; and grass don’t grow under his feet, I can tell
ye. Krook was Mrs. Smallweed’s only brother; she had no relation
but Krook, and Krook had no relation but Mrs. Smallweed. I am
speaking of your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was sev-
enty-six years of age.”
Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up,
“Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventysix thousand bags
of money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of bank-
notes!”
“Will somebody give me a quart pot?” exclaims her exasperated
husband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile within
his reach. “Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will some-
body hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? You hag,
you cat, you dog, you brimstone barker!” Here Mr. Smallweed,
wrought up to the highest pitch by his own eloquence, actually throws

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Judy at her grandmother in default of anything else, by butting that

young virgin at the old lady with such force as he can muster and
then dropping into his chair in a heap.
“Shake me up, somebody, if you’ll he so good,” says the voice
from within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has col-
lapsed. “I have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and
call in the police on duty at the next house to be explained to about
the property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect the prop-
erty. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall touch the
property!” As his dutiful grandchildren set him up, panting, and put-
ting him through the usual restorative process of shaking and punch-
ing, he still repeats like an echo, “The—the property! The property!
Property!”
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other, the former as hav-
ing relinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfited coun-
tenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet. But
there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweed interest.
Mr. Tulkinghorn’s clerk comes down from his official pew in the
chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is answer-
able for its being all correct about the next of kin and that the papers
and effects will be formally taken possession of in due time and course.
Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far to assert his supremacy as
to be carried on a visit of sentiment into the next house and upstairs
into Miss Flite’s deserted room, where he looks like a hideous bird
of prey newly added to her aviary.
The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court
still makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man if
there really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to
be made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins, as
members of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of the
foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind the
pump and under the archway all day long, where wild yells and
hootings take place over their remains. Little Swills and Miss M.
Melvilleson enter into affable conversation with their patrons, feel-
ing that these unusual occurrences level the barriers between profes-
sionals and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up “The popular

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song of King Death, with chorus by the whole strength of the com-
pany,” as the great Harmonic feature of the week and announces in
the bill that “J. G. B. is induced to do so at a considerable extra
expense in consequence of a wish which has been very generally ex-
pressed at the bar by a large body of respectable individuals and in
homage to a late melancholy event which has aroused so much sensa-
tion.” There is one point connected with the deceased upon which
the court is particularly anxious, namely, that the fiction of a full-
sized coffin should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it.
Upon the undertaker’s stating in the Sol’s bar in the course of the day
that he has received orders to construct “a six-footer,” the general
solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that Mr. Smallweed’s
conduct does him great honour.
Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable
excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look,
and carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the
same intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases
and phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some
of these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that
the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and being
reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the evidence
for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the Philosophical
Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on English
medical jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case of the Count-
ess Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by one Bianchini, prebendary
of Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so and was occasionally
heard of in his time as having gleams of reason in him; and also of
the testimony of Messrs. Fodere and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen
who would investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative
testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon
once upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where
such a case occurred and even to write an account of it—still they
regard the late Mr. Krook’s obstinacy in going out of the world by
any such by-way as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive.
The less the court understands of all this, the more the court likes it,
and the greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol’s
Arms. Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a

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foreground and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on

the Cornish coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manches-
ter, and in Mrs. Perkins’ own room, memorable evermore, he then
and there throws in upon the block Mr. Krook’s house, as large as
life; in fact, considerably larger, making a very temple of it. Similarly,
being permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he de-
picts that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long by fifty yards
high, at which the court is particularly charmed. All this time the
two gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house and
assist at the philosophical disputations—go everywhere and listen to
everybody—and yet are always diving into the Sol’s parlour and writ-
ing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper.
At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that the
coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way and tells the
gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that “that would seem to be
an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, a destined house; but so we
sometimes find it, and these are mysteries we can’t account for!” After
which the six-footer comes into action and is much admired.
In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a part, except when
he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private individual and
can only haunt the secret house on the outside, where he has the morti-
fication of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlocking the door, and of bitterly
knowing himself to be shut out. But before these proceedings draw to a
close, that is to say, on the night next after the catastrophe, Mr. Guppy
has a thing to say that must be said to Lady Dedlock.
For which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog
sense of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the
Sol’s Arms have produced, the young man of the name of Guppy
presents himself at the town mansion at about seven o’clock in the
evening and requests to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she is
going out to dinner; don’t he see the carriage at the door? Yes, he does
see the carriage at the door; but he wants to see my Lady too.
Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a fellow-gentle-
man in waiting, “to pitch into the young man”; but his instructions
are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the young man must
come up into the library. There he leaves the young man in a large
room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.

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Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering ev-
erywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or wood.
Presently he hears a rustling. Is it—? No, it’s no ghost, but fair flesh
and blood, most brilliantly dressed.
“I have to beg your ladyship’s pardon,” Mr. Guppy stammers, very
downcast. “This is an inconvenient time—”
“I told you, you could come at any time.” She takes a chair, look-
ing straight at him as on the last occasion.
“Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable.”
“You can sit down.” There is not much affability in her tone.
“I don’t know, your ladyship, that it’s worth while my sitting down
and detaining you, for I—I have not got the letters that I mentioned
when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship.”
“Have you come merely to say so?”
“Merely to say so, your ladyship.” Mr. Guppy besides being de-
pressed, disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further by the splendour
and beauty of her appearance.
She knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to miss a
grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily and
coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the least
perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts, but also
that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and fur-
ther from her.
She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.
“In short, your ladyship,” says Mr. Guppy like a meanly penitent
thief, “the person I was to have had the letters of, has come to a sudden
end, and—” He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly finishes the sentence.
“And the letters are destroyed with the person?”
Mr. Guppy would say no if he could—as he is unable to hide.
“I believe so, your ladyship.”
If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? No, he
could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not utterly put
him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it.
He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.
“Is this all you have to say?” inquires Lady Dedlock, having heard
him out—or as nearly out as he can stumble.
Mr. Guppy thinks that’s all.

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“You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me,
this being the last time you will have the opportunity.”
Mr. Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at present,
by any means.
“That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening to
you!” And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the
name of Guppy out.
But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an old
man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming with his
quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on the handle
of the door—comes in—and comes face to face with the young man as
he is leaving the room.
One glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant
the blind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp,
looks out. Another instant, close again.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thousand
times. It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. I supposed
the room was empty. I beg your pardon!”
“Stay!” She negligently calls him back. “Remain here, I beg. I am
going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this young man!”
The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly
hopes that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.
“Aye, aye?” says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bent
brows, though he has no need to look again—not he. “From Kenge
and Carboy’s, surely?”
“Kenge and Carboy’s, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Guppy, sir.”
“To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very well!”
“Happy to hear it, sir. You can’t be too well, sir, for the credit of
the profession.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guppy!”
Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his old-
fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock’s brightness, hands her down the
staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, and rubs it a good
deal in the course of the evening.

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CHAPTER XXXIV

A Turn of the Screw

“NOW, WHAT,” SAYS MR. GEORGE, “may this be? Is it blank cartridge
or ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?”
An open letter is the subject of the trooper’s speculations, and it
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm’s length, brings
it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left hand,
reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that side, con-
tracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy himself. He
smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and thoughtfully
walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it every now
and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. Even that won’t do. “Is
it,” Mr. George still muses, “blank cartridge or ball?”
Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in
the distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march
time and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back
again to the girl he left behind him.
“Phil!” The trooper beckons as he calls him.
Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he
were going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his com-
mander like a bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high
relief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the
handle of the brush.
“Attention, Phil! Listen to this.”
“Steady, commander, steady.”
“‘Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity

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for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months’ date
drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for
the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will
become due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up
the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.’ What do you
make of that, Phil?”
“Mischief, guv’ner.”
“Why?”
“I think,” replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle in
his forehead with the brush-handle, “that mischeevious consequences
is always meant when money’s asked for.”
“Lookye, Phil,” says the trooper, sitting on the table. “First and
last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal in
interest and one thing and another.”
Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very
unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.
“And lookye further, Phil,” says the trooper, staying his premature
conclusions with a wave of his hand. “There has always been an un-
derstanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And it has
been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?”
“I say that I think the times is come to a end at last.”
“You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself.”
“Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?”
“The same.”
“Guv’ner,” says Phil with exceeding gravity, “he’s a leech in his
dispositions, he’s a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his
twistings, and a lobster in his claws.”
Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, after
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of him,
gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has in
hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium
that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. George,
having folded the letter, walks in that direction.
“There is a way, commander,” says Phil, looking cunningly at him,
“of settling this.”
“Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could.”

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Phil shakes his head. “No, guv’ner, no; not so bad as that. There is
a way,” says Phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush; “what I’m a-
doing at present.”
“Whitewashing.”
Phil nods.
“A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become
of the Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to
pay off my old scores? You’re a moral character,” says the trooper,
eyeing him in his large way with no small indignation; “upon my life
you are, Phil!”
Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting
earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb,
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so
much as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy
family when steps are audible in the long passage without, and a
cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil,
with a look at his master, hobbles up, saying, “Here’s the guv’ner,
Mrs. Bagnet! Here he is!” and the old girl herself, accompanied by
Mr. Bagnet, appears.
The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the
year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very
clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so in-
teresting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe
from another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and
an umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of
the old girl’s presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in this
life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a metallic
object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model of a fan-
light over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a pair of
spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious capacity
of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article long associ-
ated with the British army. The old girl’s umbrella is of a flabby
habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays—an appearance that is
possibly referable to its having served through a series of years at
home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet bag. She never puts it
up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its

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capacious hood, but generally uses the instrument as a wand with

which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing
or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without
her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping
lids, she never stirs abroad. Attended by these her trusty companions,
therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough
straw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in
George’s Shooting Gallery.
“Well, George, old fellow,” says she, “and how do you do, this
sunshiny morning?”
Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a
long breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such
positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench,
unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms,
and looks perfectly comfortable.
Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old com-
rade and with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-
humoured nod and smile.
“Now, George,” said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, “here we are, Lignum and
myself ”—she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on ac-
count, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old regimen-
tal nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment to
the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy—”just looked
in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that security. Give him
the new bill to sign, George, and he’ll sign it like a man.”
“I was coming to you this morning,” observes the trooper reluctantly.
“Yes, we thought you’d come to us this morning, but we turned
out early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and
came to you instead—as you see! For Lignum, he’s tied so close now,
and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what’s the
matter, George?” asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk.
“You don’t look yourself.”
“I am not quite myself,” returns the trooper; “I have been a little
put out, Mrs. Bagnet.”
Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. “George!” holding
up her forefinger. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong about that

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security of Lignum’s! Don’t do it, George, on account of the children!”

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.
“George,” says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and
occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. “If you
have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum’s,
and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of
being sold up—and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as
print—you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cru-
elly. I tell you, cruelly, George. There!”
Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post,
puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it
from a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.
“George,” says that old girl, “I wonder at you! George, I am
ashamed of you! George, I couldn’t have believed you would have
done it! I always knew you to be a rolling sone that gathered no
moss, but I never thought you would have taken away what little
moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know
what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Que-
bec and Malta and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would,
or could, have had the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!” Mrs. Bagnet
gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner,
“How could you do it?”
Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head
as if the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. George,
who has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak
and straw bonnet.
“Mat,” says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but
still looking at his wife, “I am sorry you take it so much to heart,
because I do hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have,
this morning, received this letter”—which he reads aloud—”but I
hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone,
why, what you say is true. I am a rolling stone, and I never rolled in
anybody’s way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it’s
impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and fam-
ily better than I like ‘em, Mat, and I trust you’ll look upon me as
forgivingly as you can. Don’t think I’ve kept anything from you. I
haven’t had the letter more than a quarter of an hour.”

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“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, “will you tell
him my opinion?”
“Oh! Why didn’t he marry,” Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing
and half crying, “Joe Pouch’s widder in North America? Then he
wouldn’t have got himself into these troubles.”
“The old girl,” says Mr. Baguet, “puts it correct—why didn’t you?”
“Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope,” returns the
trooper. “Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, not married to Joe
Pouch’s widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me. It’s
not mine; it’s yours. Give the word, and I’ll sell off every morsel. If I
could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum wanted,
I’d have sold all long ago. Don’t believe that I’ll leave you or yours in
the lurch, Mat. I’d sell myself first. I only wish,” says the trooper,
giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, “that I knew of any
one who’d buy such a second-hand piece of old stores.”
“Old girl,” murmurs Mr. Bagnet, “give him another bit of my
mind.”
“George,” says the old girl, “you are not so much to be blamed, on
full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the
means.”
“And that was like me!” observes the penitent trooper, shaking his
head. “Like me, I know.”
“Silence! The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “is correct—in her way of
giving my opinions—hear me out!”
“That was when you never ought to have asked for the security,
George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things consid-
ered. But what’s done can’t be undone. You are always an honourable
and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power, though a little
flighty. On the other hand, you can’t admit but what it’s natural in us
to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our heads. So forget and
forgive all round, George. Come! Forget and forgive all round!”
Mrs. Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving her
husband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his and
holds them while he speaks.
“I do assure you both, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to discharge this
obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape together has gone
every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainly enough here,

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Phil and I. But the gallery don’t quite do what was expected of it, and it’s
not—in short, it’s not the mint. It was wrong in me to take it? Well, so
it was. But I was in a manner drawn into that step, and I thought it
might steady me, and set me up, and you’ll try to overlook my having
such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very much obliged to you,
and very much ashamed of myself.” With these concluding words, Mr.
George gives a shake to each of the hands he holds, and relinquishing
them, backs a pace or two in a broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he
had made a final confession and were immediately going to be shot with
all military honours.
“George, hear me out!” says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. “Old
girl, go on!”
Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely to
observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay, that it
is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr.
Smallweed in person, and that the primary object is to save and hold
harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. Mr. George,
entirely assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with Mr.
Bagnet to the enemy’s camp.
“Don’t you mind a woman’s hasty word, George,” says Mrs.
Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. “I trust my old Lignum to you,
and I am sure you’ll bring him through it.”
The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he will bring
Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with her
cloak, basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the
rest of her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand
of mollifying Mr. Smallweed.
Whether there are two people in England less likely to come satisfac-
torily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr. George and
Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned. Also, not-
withstanding their martial appearance, broad square shoulders, and heavy
tread, whether there are within the same limits two more simple and
unaccustomed children in all the Smallweedy affairs of life. As they pro-
ceed with great gravity through the streets towards the region of Mount
Pleasant, Mr. Bagnet, observing his companion to be thoughtful, con-
siders it a friendly part to refer to Mrs. Bagnet’s late sally.
“George, you know the old girl—she’s as sweet and as mild as

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milk. But touch her on the children—or myself—and she’s off like
gunpowder.”
“It does her credit, Mat!”
“George,” says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, “the old
girl—can’t do anything—that don’t do her credit. More or less. I
never say so. Discipline must he maintained.”
“She’s worth her weight in gold,” says the trooper.
“In gold?” says Mr. Bagnet. “I’ll tell you what. The old girl’s
weight—is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight—in any
metal—for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl’s metal is
far more precious—-than the preciousest metal. And she’s all metal!”
“You are right, Mat!”
“When she took me—and accepted of the ring—she ‘listed under
me and the children—heart and head, for life. She’s that earnest,”
says Mr. Bagnet, “and true to her colours—that, touch us with a
finger—and she turns out—and stands to her arms. If the old girl
fires wide—once in a way—at the call of duty—look over it, George.
For she’s loyal!”
“Why, bless her, Mat,” returns the trooper, “I think the higher of
her for it!”
“You are right!” says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm,
though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. “Think as
high of the old girl—as the rock of Gibraltar—and still you’ll be
thinking low—of such merits. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained.”
These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant and to Grand-
father Smallweed’s house. The door is opened by the perennial Judy,
who, having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour,
but indeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while
she consults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may be in-
ferred to give consent from the circumstance of her returning with
the words on her honey lips that they can come in if they want to it.
Thus privileged, they come in and find Mr. Smallweed with his feet
in the drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath and Mrs.
Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing.
“My dear friend,” says Grandfather Smallweed with those two
lean affectionate arms of his stretched forth. “How de do? How de

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do? Who is our friend, my dear friend?”

“Why this,” returns George, not able to be very conciliatory at
first, “is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of
ours, you know.”
“Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!” The old man looks at him under his
hand.
“Hope you’re well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Military
air, sir!”
No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet
and one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had no
power of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.
“Judy,” says Mr. Smallweed, “bring the pipe.”
“Why, I don’t know,” Mr. George interposes, “that the young
woman need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am
not inclined to smoke it to-day.”
“Ain’t you?” returns the old man. “Judy, bring the pipe.”
“The fact is, Mr. Smallweed,” proceeds George, “that I find my-
self in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that
your friend in the city has been playing tricks.”
“Oh, dear no!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “He never does that!”
“Don’t he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it might be
his doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter.”
Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition
of the letter.
“What does it mean?” asks Mr. George.
“Judy,” says the old man. “Have you got the pipe? Give it to me.
Did you say what does it mean, my good friend?”
“Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed,” urges the
trooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly and
confidentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand and
resting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh, “a good lot of
money has passed between us, and we are face to face at the present
moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there has
always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing which I have done
regularly and to keep this matter going. I never got a letter like this
from you before, and I have been a little put about by it this morn-
ing, because here’s my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had

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none of the money—”

“I don’t know it, you know,” says the old man quietly.
“Why, con-found you—it, I mean—I tell you so, don’t I?”
“Oh, yes, you tell me so,” returns Grandfather Smallweed. “But I
don’t know it.”
“Well!” says the trooper, swallowing his fire. “I know it.”
Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, “Ah! That’s quite
another thing!” And adds, “But it don’t matter. Mr. Bagnet’s situa-
tion is all one, whether or no.”
The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the affair
comfortably and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon
his own terms.
“That’s just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here’s
Matthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, that
makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for whereas
I’m a harurn-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more kicks than
halfpence come natural to, why he’s a steady family man, don’t you
see? Now, Mr. Smallweed,” says the trooper, gaining confidence as he
proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business, “although you and I
are good friends enough in a certain sort of a way, I am well aware that
I can’t ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely.”
“Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ask me anything, Mr.
George.” (There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather
Smallweed to-day.)
“And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps,
as your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!”
“Ha ha ha!” echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very hard
manner and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet’s natural
gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of that venerable man.
“Come!” says the sanguine George. “I am glad to find we can be
pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here’s my friend
Bagnet, and here am I. We’ll settle the matter on the spot, if you
please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you’ll ease my friend
Bagnet’s mind, and his family’s mind, a good deal if you’ll just men-
tion to him what our understanding is.”
Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, “Oh, good
gracious! Oh!” Unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy, who is found

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to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose chin has
received a recent toss, expressive of derision and contempt. Mr.
Bagnet’s gravity becomes yet more profound.
“But I think you asked me, Mr. George”—old Smallweed, who
all this time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now—”I
think you asked me, what did the letter mean?”
“Why, yes, I did,” returns the trooper in his off-hand way, “but I
don’t care to know particularly, if it’s all correct and pleasant.”
Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper’s
head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.
“That’s what it means, my dear friend. I’ll smash you. I’ll
crumble you. I’ll powder you. Go to the devil!”
The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet’s gravity
has now attained its profoundest point.
“Go to the devil!” repeats the old man. “I’ll have no more of your
pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You’re an independent dra-
goon, too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been
there before) and show your independeuce now, will you? Come,
my dear friend, there’s a chance for you. Open the street door, Judy;
put these blusterers out! Call in help if they don’t go. Put ‘em out!”
He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands on
the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his
amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which is
instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr.
George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a per-
fect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little parlour
window like a sentry and looks in every time he passes, apparently
revolving something in his mind.
“Come, Mat,” says Mr. George when he has recovered himself,
“we must try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?”
Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour, re-
plies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, “If my old
girl had been here—I’d have told him!” Having so discharged him-
self of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step and marches
off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.
When they present themselves in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr.
Tulkinghorn is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at all willing to

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see them, for when they have waited a full hour, and the clerk, on his
bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he
brings forth no more encouraging message than that Mr. Tulkinghorn
has nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. They do
wait, however, with the perseverance of military tactics, and at last
the bell rings again and the client in possession comes out of Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s room.
The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Rouncewell,
housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with
a fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She is treated
with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of his pew to
show her through the outer office and to let her out. The old lady is
thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in
waiting.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?”
The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr.
George not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr.
Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, “Yes, ma’am. Formerly.”
“I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, at the
sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless you,
gentlemen! You’ll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once who
went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in his
bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother.
I ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you, gentlemen!”
“Same to you, ma’am!” returns Mr. Bagnet with right good will.
There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old
lady’s voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old fig-
ure. But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over the fire-
place (calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he does not
look round until she has gone away and the door is closed upon her.
“George,” Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from
the almanac at last. “Don’t be cast down! ‘Why, soldiers, why—should
we be melancholy, boys?’ Cheer up, my hearty!”
The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there
and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility,
“Let ‘em come in then!” they pass into the great room with the painted
ceiling and find him standing before the fire.

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“Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last
time I saw you that I don’t desire your company here.”
Sergeant replies—dashed within the last few minutes as to his usual
manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage—that he has re-
ceived this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it, and has been
referred there.
“I have nothing to say to you,” rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. “If you
get into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences.
You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I suppose?”
Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.
“Very well! Then the other man—this man, if this is he—must
pay it for you.”
Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with
the money either.
“Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both
be sued for it and both suffer. You have had the money and must
refund it. You are not to pocket other people’s pounds, shillings, and
pence and escape scot-free.”
The lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. Mr. George
hopes he will have the goodness to—
“I tell you, sergeant, I have nothing to say to you. I don’t like your
associates and don’t want you here. This matter is not at all in my
course of practice and is not in my office. Mr. Smallweed is good
enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not in my way. You
must go to Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn.”
“I must make an apology to you, sir,” says Mr. George, “for press-
ing myself upon you with so little encouragement—which is almost
as unpleasant to me as it can be to you—but would you let me say a
private word to you?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into
one of the window recesses. “Now! I have no time to waste.” In the
midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs a sharp
look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own back to the
light and to have the other with his face towards it.
“Well, sir,” says Mr. George, “this man with me is the other party
implicated in this unfortunate affair—nominally, only nominally—
and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my ac-

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count. He is a most respectable man with a wife and family, for-

merly in the Royal Artillery—”
“My friend, I don’t care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal Artil-
lery establishment—officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses, guns,
and ammunition.”
“’Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wife and
family being injured on my account. And if I could bring them through
this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up without any
other consideration what you wanted of me the other day.”
“Have you got it here?”
“I have got it here, sir.”
“Sergeant,” the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, far
more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence,
“make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After I
have finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won’t re-open
it. Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days, what you say
you have brought here if you choose; you can take it away at once if
you choose. In case you choose to leave it here, I can do this for
you—I can replace this matter on its old footing, and I can go so far
besides as to give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet
shall never be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded
against to the utmost, that your means shall be exhausted before the
creditor looks to his. This is in fact all but freeing him. Have you
decided?”
The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long
breath, “I must do it, sir.”
So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes
the undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to Bagnet, who
has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand on
his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, and seems
exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express his
sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded
paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer’s elbow.
“’Tis ouly a letter of instructions, sir. The last I ever had from him.”
Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for some change in its expres-
sion, and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr. Tulkinghorn
when he opens and reads the letter! He refolds it and lays it in his

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desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death.

Nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the
same frigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, “You can go.
Show these men out, there!” Being shown out, they repair to Mr.
Bagnet’s residence to dine.
Boiled beef and greens constitute the day’s variety on the former
repast of boiled pork and greens, and Mrs. Bagnet serves out the
meal in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, being
that rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms without a
hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot of
darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is the darkened brow of
Mr. George; he is unusually thoughtful and depressed. At first Mrs.
Bagnet trusts to the combined endearments of Quebec and Malta to
restore him, but finding those young ladies sensible that their exist-
ing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome acquaintance,
she winks off the light infantry and leaves him to deploy at leisure on
the open ground of the domestic hearth.
But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed.
During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and
Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was
at dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his
pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation and dismay
by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.
Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the invigo-
rating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls, “Old
girl!” and winks monitions to her to find out what’s the matter.
“Why, George!” says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle.
“How low you are!”
“Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not.”
“He ain’t at all like Blulfy, mother!” cries little Malta.
“Because he ain’t well, I think, mother,” adds Quebec.
“Sure that’s a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!” returns the trooper,
kissing the young damsels. “But it’s true,” with a sigh, “true, I am
afraid. These little ones are always right!”
“George,” says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, “if I thought you
cross enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier’s wife—
who could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have

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done it almost—said this morning, I don’t know what I shouldn’t

say to you now.”
“My kind soul of a darling,” returns the trooper. “Not a morsel of it.”
“Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to say
was that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you’d bring him through
it. And you have brought him through it, noble!”
“Thankee, my dear!” says George. “I am glad of your good opin-
ion.”
In giving Mrs. Bagnet’s hand, with her work in it, a friendly
shake—for she took her seat beside him—the trooper’s attention is
attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as she plies
her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his stool in the
corner, and beckons that fifer to him.
“See there, my boy,” says George, very gently smoothing the
mother’s hair with his hand, “there’s a good loving forehead for you!
All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by the sun and
the weather through following your father about and taking care of
you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree.”
Mr. Bagnet’s face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies,
the highest approbation and acquiescence.
“The time will come, my boy,” pursues the trooper, “when this
hair of your mother’s will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and
re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she’ll be then. Take care,
while you are young, that you can think in those days, ‘I never whit-
ened a hair of her dear head—I never marked a sorrowful line in her
face!’ For of all the many things that you can think of when you are
a man, you had better have that by you, Woolwich!”
Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy
beside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about
him, that he’ll smoke his pipe in the street a bit.

End of Volume One

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XXXV

Esther’s Narrative

I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect of time
so much as of the change in all my habits made by the helplessness
and inaction of a sick-room. Before I had been confined to it many
days, everything else seemed to have retired into a remote distance
where there was little or no separation between the various stages of
my life which had been really divided by years. In falling ill, I seemed
to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my experiences, mingled
together by the great distance, on the healthy shore.
My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxiety
to think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as the
oldest of the old duties at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons when
I went home from school with my portfolio under my arm, and my
childish shadow at my side, to my godmother’s house. I had never
known before how short life really was and into how small a space
the mind could put it.
While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time be-
came confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At
once a child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been so happy as,
I was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each sta-
tion, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile them.
I suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can quite
understand what I mean or what painful unrest arose from this source.
For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder—it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both
nights and days in it—when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever
striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in a
garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew per-
fectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that I was in my

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bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touch, and knew her very
well; yet I would find myself complaining, “Oh, more of these never-
ending stairs, Charley—more and more—piled up to the sky’, I
think!” and labouring on again.
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere
in great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry
circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my
only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such
inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?
Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious and
the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make others
unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering
them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we
might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.
The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself
and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying, with no
other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind—this
state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when
I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and
knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough
that I should see again.
I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her
calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her
praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to leave
my bedside no more; but I had only said, when I could speak, “Never,
my sweet girl, never!” and I had over and over again reminded Charley
that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived or died.
Charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with her little
hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming
every day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that
my dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them
to my lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her.
I could see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the
two rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to
Ada from the open window again. I could understand the stillness in

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the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those
who had always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite
felicity of my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had
been in my strength.
By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with
so strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were
done for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a
little, and so on to a little more and much more, until I became
useful to myself, and interested, and attached to life again.
How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in
bed with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with
Charley! The little creature—sent into the world, surely, to minister
to the weak and sick—was so happy, and so busy, and stopped so
often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and fondle
me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so glad, that I
was obliged to say, “Charley, if you go on in this way, I must lie
down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I was!” So
Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face here and
there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into the
divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into
the shade, while I watched her peacefully. When all her preparations
were concluded and the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to
tempt me, and its white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so
lovingly and beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was
ready at the bedside, I felt sure I was steady enough to say something
to Charley that was not new to my thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was so
fresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had
been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her face was
brighter than before.
“Yet, Charley,” said I, looking round, “I miss something, surely,
that I am accustomed to?”
Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her
head as if there were nothing absent.
“Are the pictures all as they used to be?” I asked her.
“Every one of them, miss,” said Charley.
“And the furniture, Charley?”

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“Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss.”

“And yet,” said I, “I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it
is, Charley! It’s the looking-glass.”
Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten
something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.
I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I
could thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called
Charley back, and when she came—at first pretending to smile, but
as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved—I took her in my arms
and said, “It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do without my
old face very well.”
I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great
chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on
Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too,
but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.
My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was
now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He
came one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in
his embrace and say, “My dear, dear girl!” I had long known—who
could know better?—what a deep fountain of affection and generosity
his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to
fill such a place in it? “Oh, yes!” I thought. “He has seen me, and he
loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of me
than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!”
He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm.
For a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he
removed it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been,
there never can be, a pleasanter manner.
“My little woman,” said he, “what a sad time this has been. Such
an inflexible little woman, too, through all!”
“Only for the best, guardian,” said I.
“For the best?” he repeated tenderly. “Of course, for the best. But
here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has
your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; here has
every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has
even poor Rick been writing—to me too—in his anxiety for you!”
I had read of Caddy in Ada’s letters, but not of Richard. I told him so.

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“Why, no, my dear,” he replied. “I have thought it better not to

mention it to her.”
“And you speak of his writing to you,” said I, repeating his empha-
sis. “As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as if he could
write to a better friend!”
“He thinks he could, my love,” returned my guardian, “and to many
a better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while
unable to write to you with any hope of an answer—wrote coldly,
haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we must
look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has
warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes. I have known
it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two angels could be
concerned in it, I believe it would change their nature.”
“It has not changed yours, guardian.”
“Oh, yes, it has, my dear,” he said laughingly. “It has made the
south wind easterly, I don’t know how often. Rick mistrusts and
suspects me—goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect
me. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his and
what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of the moun-
tains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so
long bestowed (which I can’t) or could level them by the extinction
of my own original right (which I can’t either, and no human power
ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do it
this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature than
be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart and
soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the Ac-
countant-General—and that’s money enough, my dear, to be cast
into a pyramid, in memory of Chancery’s transcendent wickedness.”
“Is it possible, guardian,” I asked, amazed, “that Richard can be
suspicious of you?”
“Ah, my love, my love,” he said, “it is in the subtle poison of such
abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects lose
their natural aspects in his sight. It is not his fault.”
“But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian.”
“It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within
the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By
little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed, and it

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communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything around

him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient with poor
Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh hearts like his
have I seen in my time turned by the same means!”
I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret
that his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.
“We must not say so, Dame Durden,” he cheerfully rephed; “Ada
is the happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both
these young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and
that we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it.
But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the cur-
tain of Rick’s cradle.”
“But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach
him what a false and wretched thing it is?”
“We will hope so, my Esther,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and that it may
not teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him.
There are not many grown and matured men living while we speak,
good men too, who if they were thrown into this same court as
suitors would not be vitally changed and depreciated within three
years—within two—within one. How can we stand amazed at poor
Rick? A young man so unfortunate,” here he fell into a lower tone,
as if he were thinking aloud, “cannot at first believe (who could?)
that Chancery is what it is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do
something with his interests and bring them to some settlement. It
procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine
hopes and patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and
hankers after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow.
Well, well, well! Enough of this, my dear!”
He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness
was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and
loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in
this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grew strong
and try to set him right.
“There are better subjects than these,” said my guardian, “for such a
joyful time as the time of our dear girl’s recovery. And I had a commis-
sion to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk. When shall
Ada come to see you, my love?”

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I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the

absent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be
changed by no change in my looks.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “as I have shut her out so long—though
indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me—”
“I know it well, Dame Durden, well.”
He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion
and affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my
heart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. “Yes, yes,
you are tired,” said he, “Rest a little.”
“As I have kept Ada out so long,” I began afresh after a short while,
“I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian. It
would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley and I
were to go to some country lodging as soon as I can move, and if I
had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by the
sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having Ada with
me again, I think it would be better for us.”
I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more
used to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed
so ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. He
understood me, I was sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it
were a poor thing, I knew he would pass it over.
“Our spoilt little woman,” said my guardian, “shall have her own
way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears
downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry, breathing
such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before, that if
you don’t go and occupy his whole house, he having already turned
out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth he’ll pull
it down and not leave one brick standing on another!”
And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary
beginning such as “My dear Jarndyce,” but rushing at once into the
words, “I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take
possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one o’clock,
P.M.,” and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most em-
phatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had
quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing heart-
ily over it, and we settled that I should send him a letter of thanks on

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the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable one to me,
for all the places I could have thought of, I should have liked to go to
none so well as Chesney Wold.
“Now, little housewife,” said my guardian, looking at his watch,
“I was strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired
too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one
other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour that you were ill,
made nothing of walking down here—twenty miles, poor soul, in a
pair of dancing shoes—to inquire. It was heaven’s mercy we were at
home, or she would have walked back again.”
The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be
in it!
“Now, pet,” said my guardian, “if it would not be irksome to you
to admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save
Boythorn’s otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you
would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I—
though my eminent name is Jarndyce—could do in a lifetime.”
I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple
image of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson
on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not tell
him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her. I had always pitied
her, never so much as now. I had always been glad of my little power to
soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so glad before.
We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and
share my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face
away upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by
such blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I had to
undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired
to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to
some one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my
mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had
since enjoyed and all the affectionate hearts that had been turned
towards me. If I were weak now, what had I profited by those mer-
cies? I repeated the old childish prayer in its old childish words and
found that its old peace had not departed from it.
My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could
walk about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind

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the window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the
courage to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily
without her seeing me.
On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature
ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying
from her very heart of hearts, “My dear Fitz Jarndyce!” fell upon my
neck and kissed me twenty times.
“Dear me!” said she, putting her hand into her reticule, “I have
nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow
a pocket handkerchief.”
Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of
it, for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding
tears for the next ten minutes.
“With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce,” she was careful to explain. “Not the
least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at having the honour of being
admitted to see you. I am so much fonder of you, my love, than of the
Chancellor. Though I do attend court regularly. By the by, my dear, mention-
ing pocket handkerchiefs—”
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at the
place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked
unwilling to pursue the suggestion.
“Ve-ry right!” said Miss Flite, “Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly
indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am
afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn’t think it) a
little—rambling you know,” said Miss Flite, touching her forehead.
“Nothing more,”
“What were you going to tell me?” said I, smiling, for I saw she
wanted to go on. “You have roused my curiosity, and now you must
gratify it.”
Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis,
who said, “If you please, ma’am, you had better tell then,” and therein
gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.
“So sagacious, our young friend,” said she to me in her mysterious
way. “Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it’s a pretty
anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should fol-
low us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in
a very ungenteel bonnet—”

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“Jenny, if you please, miss,” said Charley.

“Just so!” Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity.
“Jenny. Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that there
has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz
Jarndyce’s health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little
keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz Jarndyce’s! Now,
you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!”
“If you please, miss,” said Charley, to whom I looked in some
astonishment, “Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a handker-
chief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the baby’s little
things. I think, if you please, partly because it was yours, miss, and partly
because it had covered the baby.”
“Diminutive,” whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motions
about her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. “But ex-
ceedingly sagacious! And so dear! My love, she’s clearer than any coun-
sel I ever heard!”
“Yes, Charley,” I returned. “I remember it. Well?”
“Well, miss,” said Charley, “and that’s the handkerchief the lady took.
And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn’t have made away with
it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and left some
money instead. Jenny don’t know her at all, if you please, miss!”
“Why, who can she be?” said I. “My love,” Miss Flite suggested,
advancing her lips to my ear with her most mysterious look, “in MY
opinion—don’t mention this to our diminutive friend—she’s the
Lord Chancellor’s wife. He’s married, you know. And I understand
she leads him a terrible life. Throws his lordship’s papers into the fire,
my dear, if he won’t pay the jeweller!”
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an im-
pression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was diverted
by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and
who, our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in
arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and a
much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought
down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the entertainment,
consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a sweetbread, vegetables,
pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant to see how she enjoyed
it, and with what state and ceremony she did honour to it, that I was

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soon thinking of nothing else.

When we had finished and had our little dessert before us, embel-
lished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the superintendence
of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flite was so very chatty
and happy that I thought I would lead her to her own history, as she
was always pleased to talk about herself. I began by saying “You have
attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss Flite?”
“Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment.
Shortly.”
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubt-
ful if I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would
say no more about it.
“My father expected a judgment,” said Miss Flite. “My brother.
My sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect.”
“They are all—”
“Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear,” said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable
to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.
“Would it not be wiser,” said I, “to expect this judgment no more?”
“Why, my dear,” she answered promptly, “of course it would!”
“And to attend the court no more?”
“Equally of course,” said she. “Very wearing to be always in expec-
tation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, I assure
you, to the bone!”
She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.
“But, my dear,” she went on in her mysterious way, “there’s a dread-
ful attraction in the place. Hush! Don’t mention it to our diminutive
friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With good reason.
There’s a cruel attraction in the place. You can’t leave it. And you
must expect.”
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently
and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.
“Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry
absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To the
head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there many years, and I
have noticed. It’s the mace and seal upon the table.”
What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.

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“Draw,” returned Miss Flite. “Draw people on, my dear. Draw peace
out of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good quali-
ties out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away in the
night. Cold and glittering devils!”
She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-
humouredly as if she were anxious I should understand that I had no
cause to fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these
awful secrets to me.
“Let me see,” said she. “I’ll tell you my own case. Before they ever drew
me—before I had ever seen them—what was it I used to do? Tambourine
playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister worked at tambour work.
Our father and our brother had a builder’s business. We all lived together.
Ve-ry respectably, my dear! First, our father was drawn—slowly. Home
was drawn with him. In a few years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt
without a kind word or a kind look for any one. He had been so different,
Fitz Jarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors’ prison. There he died. Then our
brother was drawn—swiftly—to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then
my sister was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was ill and in
misery, and heard, as I had often heard before, that this was all the work of
Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then I
found out how it was, and I was drawn to stay there.”
Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which
she had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh
upon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance.
“You don’t quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some
day. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen many new
faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal
in these many years. As my father’s came there. As my brother’s. As
my sister’s. As my own. I hear Conversation Kenge and the rest of
them say to the new faces, ‘Here’s little Miss Flite. Oh, you are new
here; and you must come and be presented to little Miss Flite!’ Ve-ry
good. Proud I am sure to have the honour! And we all laugh. But,
Fitz Jarndyce, I know what will happen. I know, far better than they
do, when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw
them begin in Gridley. And I saw them end. Fitz Jarndyce, my love,”
speaking low again,
“I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in Jarndyce. Let some

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one hold him back. Or he’ll be drawn to ruin.

She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradu-
ally softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too
gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said
politely as she sipped her glass of wine, “Yes, my dear, as I was saying,
I expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall release my birds, you know,
and confer estates.”
I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sad
meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its
way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite
complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.
“But, my dear,” she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it
upon mine. “You have not congratulated me on my physician. Posi-
tively not once, yet!”
I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.
“My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly
attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite gratuitously.
Until the Day of Judgment. I mean the judgment that will dissolve
the spell upon me of the mace and seal.”
“Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now,” said I, “that I thought the
time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite.”
“But, my child,” she returned, “is it possible that you don’t know
what has happened?”
“No,” said I.
“Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz
Jarndyce!”
“No,” said I. “You forget how long I have been here.”
“True! My dear, for the moment—true. I blame myself. But my
memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I
mentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear, there has
been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas.”
“Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!”
“Don’t be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all
shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness. Num-
bers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, and through it all,
my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave through everything.
Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped

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naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to
do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the
poor survivors safely off at last! My dear, the poor emaciated creatures
all but worshipped him. They fell down at his feet when they got to
the land and blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where’s
my bag of documents? I have got it there, and you shall read it, you
shall read it!”
And I did read all the noble history, though very slowly and im-
perfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the
words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay
down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt so
triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such gener-
ous and gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I
so admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-
worn people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their pre-
server. I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed
him in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave. I felt
that no one—mother, sister, wife—could honour him more than I.
I did, indeed!
My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when
as the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she
should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full of
the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufflciently composed myself to
understand in all its details.
“My dear,” said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves,
“my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And
no doubt he will. You are of that opinlon?”
That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.
“Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?” she asked rather sharply.
I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men
distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless
occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very
large amount of money.
“Why, good gracious,” said Miss Flite, “how can you say that?
Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of En-
gland in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improve-
ment of every sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my

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dear, and consider. you must be rambling a little now, I think, if you
don’t know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in
the land!”
I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments
when she was very mad indeed.
And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to
keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me and
that if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he
loved me before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if he
had done so, I should have been glad of it. But how much better it
was now that this had never happened! What should I have suffered
if I had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had
known as mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released
him from his bondage to one whom he had never seen!
Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully
spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all
he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be un-
done: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could go,
please God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go
his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apart
upon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, inno-
cently, better far than he had thought me when I found some favour
in his eyes, at the journey’s end.

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CHAPTER XXXVI

Chesney Wold

CHARLEY AND I DID NOT SET OFF alone upon our expedition into
Lincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight of
me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn’s house, so he accompanied us,
and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of air, and
every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every
passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful
to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my first gain from my
illness. How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of de-
light for me.
My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on
our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a
letter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hour of
our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in the early
summer-time.
If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her
wand, and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could
not have been more considered in it. So many preparations were
made for me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all
my little tastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a
dozen times before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better than
that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley’s
delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and
Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions,
I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a great
comfort to be able to say to myself after tea, “Esther, my dear, I think
you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a note of
thanks to your host.” He had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny

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as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew
to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly I wrote a little
note to him in London, telling him how all his favourite plants and
trees were looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped
the honours of the house to me in the most hospitable manner, and
how, after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of
my little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage,
but whether dreaming or no I could not report. My note finished
and sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and
arranging; and I sent Charley to bed in good time and told her I
should want her no more that night.
For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have
my own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must be
overcome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh
when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,
and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, “Esther, if you are
to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted,
you must keep your word, my dear.” I was quite resolved to keep it,
but I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my blessings.
And then I said my prayers and thought a little more.
My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger more
than once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook it out, and
went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a little mus-
lin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood for a moment
looking through such a veil of my own hair that I could see nothing
else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the
mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. I was
very much changed—oh, very, very much. At first my face was so
strange to me that I think I should have put my hands before it and
started back but for the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon
it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration
in it better than I had done at first. It was not like what I had ex-
pected, but I had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything
definite would have surprised me.
I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I
had been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven was
so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and

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could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.
One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before
I went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt’s flowers. When they
were withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was
fond of. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I
had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different—whether
it was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to
him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never
know, because I could have loved him—could have been devoted to
him. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I
treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past
and gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light. I
hope this may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.
I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass
when Charley came in on tiptoe.
“Dear, dear, miss!” cried Charley, starting. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Charley,” said I, quietly putting up my hair. “And I am very
well indeed, and very happy.”
I saw it was a weight off Charley’s mind, but it was a greater
weight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I
shall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite con-
quer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of
mind stayed by me faithfully.
Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good
spirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with
Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out
before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again be-
fore and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea, and were
to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and explore every
road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to restoratives and
strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn’s good housekeeper was for ever
trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; I could not
even be heard of as resting in the park but she would come trotting
after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining with a lecture on the
importance of frequent nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly
for my riding, a chubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his
eyes who could canter—when he would—so easily and quietly that he

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was a treasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock

when I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. We
arrived at such a capital understanding that when he was jogging with
me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his
neck and said, “Stubbs, I am surprised you don’t canter when you
know how much I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for you
are only getting stupid and going to sleep,” he would give his head a
comical shake or two and set off directly, while Charley would stand
still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. I
don’t know who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong
to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a little chaise
and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles;
but all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take
it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of
tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his ears
the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped to
think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that it was not to be
borne, for he steadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley
and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of
good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear
against my sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, “Now, Stubbs, I feel
quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride a little
while,” for the moment I left him, he stood stock still again. Conse-
quently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in this order we
returned home, to the great delight of the village.
Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, I
am sure, for in a week’s time the people were so glad to see us go
by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were
faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the grown
people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple
began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new
friends was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched
and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned
up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. This old lady
had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her
and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had
brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place.

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This was considered by the whole village the most wonderful

achievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the
way from Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to
take the picture all the way to America, and from America would
write again, I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the
post-office and was invested with the merit of the whole system.
Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many
children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so
many cottages, going on with Charley’s education, and writing long
letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that
little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of it
at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy and forget it.
I felt it more than I had hoped I should once when a child said,
“Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?”
But when I found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its
soft hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch,
that soon set me up again. There were many little occurrences which
suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle
hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of
these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little
church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple
had to sign the register.
The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude
cross for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I
had known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest
girl in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the school,
and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She came
aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and admiration
stood in her bright eyes, “He’s a dear good fellow, miss; but he can’t
write yet—he’s going to learn of me—and I wouldn’t shame him for
the world!” Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when there was this
nobility in the soul of a labouring man’s daughter!
The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown,
and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my
old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so rosy;
and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole night.
There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney

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Wold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The
wood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight,
and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I rested
there at least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the
Ghost’s Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and
the startling name, and the old legend in the Dedlock family which I
had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting for it, mingled with the
view and gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its
real charms. There was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for
violets; and as it was a daily delight of Charley’s to gather wild flow-
ers, she took as much to the spot as I did.
It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the
house or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard
on my arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incurious
or uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this
place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a
footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the lonely
Ghost’s Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady Dedlock
had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from
the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face and
figure were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot say that they
repelled me from it, though something did. For whatever reason or
no reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which
my story now arrives.
I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and Char-
ley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had been
looking at the Ghost’s Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off
and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it
when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood.
The perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shad-
ows of the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate
to the eye, that at first I could not discern what figure it was. By little
and little it revealed itself to be a woman’s—a lady’s—Lady Dedlock’s.
She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step, I
observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.
I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost
within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to

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continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not

so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick
advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in
her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a
something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I
was a little child, something I had never seen in any face, something
I had never seen in hers before.
A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. Lady
Dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what
I had known her.
“Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you,” she said, now
advancing slowly. “You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been very
ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it.”
I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I
could have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her
hand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced com-
posure of her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered
me. I cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts.
“You are recovering again?” she asked kindly.
“I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock.”
“Is this your young attendant?”
“Yes.”
“Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?”
“Charley,” said I, “take your flowers home, and I will follow you
directly.”
Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet and
went her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the
seat beside me.
I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw
in her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.
I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I could
not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent and wild
that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when she caught
me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me, and
called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and cried to
me, “Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy mother!
Oh, try to forgive me!”—when I saw her at my feet on the bare earth

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in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion,

a burst of gratitude to the providence of God that I was so changed as
that I never could disgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody
could ever now look at me and look at her and remotely think of any
near tie between us.
I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop
before me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken,
incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me
to see her at my feet. I told her—or I tried to tell her—that if it were
for me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to for-
give her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. I told her that
my heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which
nothing in the past had changed or could change. That it was not for
me, then resting for the first time on my mother’s bosom, to take
her to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to
bless her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her,
and that I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in my
embrace, and she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the
silence of the summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two
troubled minds that was not at peace.
“To bless and receive me,” groaned my mother, “it is far too late. I
must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will.
From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see the way
before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I have brought
upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it.”
Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of
proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off again.
“I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly
for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature
that I am!”
These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more
terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her hands,
she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I should
touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by any endear-
ments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no, no, no, she
could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful every-
where else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only

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natural moments of her life.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly
frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She could
not have suspected me to be that child before. She had followed me
down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We never could
associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time
forth could interchange another word on earth. She put into my hands
a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read it
and destroyed it—but not so much for her sake, since she asked noth-
ing, as for her husband’s and my own—I must evermore consider her
as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which I
saw her, with a mother’s love, she asked me to do that, for then I
might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered.
She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. Whether she
preserved her secret until death or it came to be discovered and she
brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was
her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and
no human creature could render her any aid.
“But is the secret safe so far?” I asked. “Is it safe now, dearest mother?”
“No,” replied my mother. “It has been very near discovery. It was
saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident—to-mor-
row, any day.”
“Do you dread a particular person?”
“Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy
of these tears,” said my mother, kissing my hands. “I dread one per-
son very much.”
“An enemy?”
“Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is Sir
Leicester Dedlock’s lawyer, mechanically faithful without attach-
ment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of
being master of the mysteries of great houses.”
“Has he any suspicions?”
“Many.”
“Not of you?” I said alarmed.
“Yes! He is always vigilant and always near me. I may keep him at
a standstill, but I can never shake him off.”
“Has he so little pity or compunction?”

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“He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything but

his calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding
possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or oppo-
nent in it.”
“Could you trust in him?”
“I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years
will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the end
be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts, nothing
turns me.”
“Dear mother, are you so resolved?”
“I am resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with
pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived
many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger, and outdie
it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these
woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course
through it is the same. I have but one; I can have but one.”
“Mr. Jarndyce—” I was beginning when my mother hurriedly in-
quired, “Does he suspect?”
“No,” said I. “No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!” And I
told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story.
“But he is so good and sensible,” said I, “that perhaps if he knew—”
My mother, who until this time had made no change in her
position, raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.
“Confide fully in him,” she said after a little while. “You have my
free consent—a small gift from such a mother to her injured child!—
but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even yet.”
I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now—for my
agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely under-
stood myself, though every word that was uttered in the mother’s
voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in my child-
hood I had never learned to love and recognize, had never been sung
to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from, had never had a hope
inspired by, made an enduring impression on my memory—I say I
explained, or tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr. Jarndyce,
who had been the best of fathers to me, might be able to afford some
counsel and support to her. But my mother answered no, it was
impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert that lay be-

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fore her, she must go alone.

“My child, my child!” she said. “For the last time! These kisses for
the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We shall
meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must be what I
have been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hear of Lady
Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched
mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! Think that the
reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering
within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable! And
then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven
to forgive her, which it never can!”
We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that
she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and
with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from
me into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the
sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on
which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I
first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying
watcher of my mother’s misery.
Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever been in
my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of dis-
covery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. I took such
precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I had been crying, and
I constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation that there was
upon me to be careful and collected. It was not a little while before I
could succeed or could even restrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or
so I was better and felt that I might return. I went home very slowly
and told Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had
been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and
that I was over-tired and would lie down. Safe in my own room, I read
the letter. I clearly derived from it—and that was much then—that I
had not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister, the
godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when I
had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, with no
desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and
had never again beheld my mother’s face from within a few hours of
my birth. So strangely did I hold my place in this world that until

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within a short time back I had never, to my own mother’s knowledge,

breathed—had been buried—had never been endowed with life—had
never borne a name. When she had first seen me in the church she had
been startled and had thought of what would have been like me if it
had ever lived, and had lived on, but that was all then.
What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It has
its own times and places in my story.
My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to
consume even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or
bad in me that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever
been reared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and
happier for many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I had a
terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own
mother and of a proud family name. That I was so confused and
shaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and had been
intended that I should die in my birth, and that it was wrong
and not intended that I should be then alive.
These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out, and
when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world
with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever frightened
of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was a witness, of the
owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old
words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, “Your
mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers. The time will
come—and soon enough—when you will understand this better,
and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.” With them, those
other words returned, “Pray daily that the sins of others be not vis-
ited upon your head.” I could not disentangle all that was about me,
and I felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the
visitation had come down.
The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I still
contended with the same distress. I went out alone, and after walk-
ing a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees
and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almost touched
me, was attracted to the house for the first time. Perhaps I might not
have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame of mind. As it was,
I took the path that led close by it.

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I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the
terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its
well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and grave it
was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights
of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the
trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone
pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling. Then the
way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by turreted tow-
ers and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stone lions and gro-
tesque monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the
evening gloom over the escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence
the path wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard
where the principal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the
stables where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the
murmuring of the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a
high red wall, or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in
the barking of the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So, en-
countering presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I could
hear, I turned with the turning of the path to the south front, and
there above me were the balustrades of the Ghost’s Walk and one
lighted window that might be my mother’s.
The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my foot-
steps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags.
Stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, I was
passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the
lighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly
into my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the
Ghost’s Walk, that it was I who was to bring calamity upon the
stately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then.
Seized with an augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, I
ran from myself and everything, retraced the way by which I had
come, and never paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and the
park lay sullen and black behind me.
Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had
again been dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how
wrong and thankless this state was. But from my darling who was
coming on the morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such loving

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anticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not moved

me; from my guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me to
tell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman anywhere, that
they had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping
was going to rack and ruin, that nobody else could manage the
keys, and that everybody in and about the house declared it was
not the same house and was becoming rebellious for her return.
Two such letters together made me think how far beyond my deserts
I was beloved and how happy I ought to be. That made me think
of all my past life; and that brought me, as it ought to have done
before, into a better condition.
For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, or
I should never have lived; not to say should never have been reserved
for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things had worked
together for my welfare, and that if the sins of the fathers were some-
times visited upon the children, the phrase did not mean what I had
in the morning feared it meant. I knew I was as innocent of my birth
as a queen of hers and that before my Heavenly Father I should not
be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. I had had experi-
ence, in the shock of that very day, that I could, even thus soon, find
comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on me. I
renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them, pour-
ing out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother and feeling
that the darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon
my sleep; and when the next day’s light awoke me, it was gone.
My dear girl was to arrive at five o’clock in the afternoon. How to
help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking a
long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did not know;
so Charley and I and Stubbs—Stubbs saddled, for we never drove
him after the one great occasion—made a long expedition along that
road and back. On our return, we held a great review of the house
and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition, and
had the bird out ready as an important part of the establishment.
There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could
come, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I must confess
I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling
so well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on any

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one. I was not in this slight distress because I at all repined—I am

quite certain I did not, that day—but, I thought, would she be wholly
prepared? When she first saw me, might she not be a little shocked
and disappointed? Might it not prove a little worse than she expected?
Might she not look for her old Esther and not find her? Might she
not have to grow used to me and to begin all over again?
I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl’s face so well, and
it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure beforehand
she could not hide that first look from me. And I considered whether,
if it should signify any one of these meanings, which was so very
likely, could I quite answer for myself?
Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. But to
wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, was such bad
preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and meet her.
So I said to Charley, ‘“Charley, I will go by myself and walk along
the road until she comes.” Charley highly approving of anything that
pleased me, I went and left her at home.
But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many
palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was
not, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back and
go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear of the
coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neither would,
nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part of the way to
avoid being overtaken.
Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nice
thing to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of it
instead of the best.
At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour
more yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in
the garden, “Here she comes, miss! Here she is!”
I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hid
myself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heard
my darling calling as she came upstairs, “Esther, my dear, my love,
where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!”
She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, my
angel girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection.
Nothing else in it—no, nothing, nothing!

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Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beau-
tiful girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her
lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro
like a child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of,
and pressing me to her faithful heart.

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CHAPTER XXXVII

Jarndyce and Jarndyce

IF THE SECRET I HAD TO KEEP had been mine, I must have confided it to
Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mine, and I did
not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my guardian, unless some
great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone; still my present
duty appeared to be plain, and blest in the attachment of my dear, I did
not want an impulse and encouragement to do it. Though often when
she was asleep and all was quiet, the remembrance of my mother kept
me waking and made the night sorrowful, I did not yield to it at
another time; and Ada found me what I used to be—except, of course,
in that particular of which I have said enough and which I have no
intention of mentioning any more just now, if I can help it.
The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first evening
when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at the house,
and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, for Lady Dedlock
had spoken to me in the woods the day before yesterday, was great.
Greater still when Ada asked me what she had said, and when I replied
that she had been kind and interested, and when Ada, while admitting
her beauty and elegance, remarked upon her proud manner and her
imperious chilling air. But Charley helped me through, unconsciously,
by telling us that Lady Dedlock had only stayed at the house two
nights on her way from London to visit at some other great house in
the next county and that she had left early on the morning after we had
seen her at our view, as we called it. Charley verified the adage about
little pitchers, I am sure, for she heard of more sayings and doings in a
day than would have come to my ears in a month.
We were to stay a month at Mr. Boythorn’s. My pet had scarcely

536
 Dickens

been there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when one evening
after we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers,
and just as the candles were lighted, Charley, appearing with a very
important air behind Ada’s chair, beckoned me mysteriously out of
the room.
“Oh! If you please, miss,” said Charley in a whisper, with her eyes
at their roundest and largest. “You’re wanted at the Dedlock Arms.”
“Why, Charley,” said I, “who can possibly want me at the public-
house?”
“I don’t know, miss,” returned Charley, putting her head forward
and folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron, which
she always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious or confiden-
tial, “but it’s a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, and will you
please to come without saying anything about it.”
“Whose compliments, Charley?”
“His’n, miss,” returned Charley, whose grammatical education was
advancing, but not very rapidly.
“And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?”
“I am not the messenger, if you please, miss,” returned my little
maid. “It was W. Grubble, miss.”
“And who is W. Grubble, Charley?”
“Mister Grubble, miss,” returned Charley. “Don’t you know, miss?
The Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble,” which Charley delivered as if
she were slowly spelling out the sign.
“Aye? The landlord, Charley?”
“Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, but
she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother’s the sawyer
that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he’ll drink himself to
death entirely on beer,” said Charley.
Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily appre-
hensive now, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I bade
Charley be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and having
put them on, went away down the little hilly street, where I was as
much at home as in Mr. Boythorn’s garden.
Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of his very
clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hat with both hands
when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if it were an iron vessel

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(it looked as heavy), preceded me along the sanded passage to his best
parlour, a neat carpeted room with more plants in it than were quite
convenient, a coloured print of Queen Caroline, several shells, a good
many tea-trays, two stuffed and dried fish in glass cases, and either a
curious egg or a curious pumpkin (but I don’t know which, and I
doubt if many people did) hanging from his ceiling. I knew Mr. Grubble
very well by sight, from his often standing at his door. A pleasant-
looking, stoutish, middle-aged man who never seemed to consider
himself cozily dressed for his own fire-side without his hat and top-
boots, but who never wore a coat except at church.
He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how it
looked, backed out of the room—unexpectedly to me, for I was
going to ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the oppo-
site parlour being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar in my
ears I thought, which stopped. A quick light step approached the
room in which I was, and who should stand before me but Richard!
“My dear Esther!” he said. “My best friend!” And he really was so
warm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure of his
brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell him that Ada
was well.
“Answering my very thoughts—always the same dear girl!” said Rich-
ard, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.
I put my veil up, but not quite.
“Always the same dear girl!” said Richard just as heartily as before.
I put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on Richard’s sleeve
and looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him for his
kind welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see him, the more so
because of the determination I had made in my illness, which I now
conveyed to him.
“My love,” said Richard, “there is no one with whom I have a
greater wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me.”
“And I want you, Richard,” said I, shaking my head, “to under-
stand some one else.”
“Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce,” said Richard,
“—I suppose you mean him?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on that

538
 Dickens

subject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind—you,

my dear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce or Mr. Anybody.”
I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.
“Well, well, my dear,” said Richard, “we won’t go into that now. I
want to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you under
my arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose your
loyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that?”
“My dear Richard,” I returned, “you know you would be heartily
welcome at his house—your home, if you will but consider it so;
and you are as heartily welcome here!”
“Spoken like the best of little women!” cried Richard gaily.
I asked him how he liked his profession.
“Oh, I like it well enough!” said Richard. “It’s all right. It does as well
as anything else, for a time. I don’t know that I shall care about it when
I come to be settled, but I can sell out then and—however, never mind
all that botheration at present.”
So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the oppo-
site of Miss Flite! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seeking look that
passed over him, so dreadfully like her!
“I am in town on leave just now,” said Richard.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I have run over to look after my—my Chancery interests
before the long vacation,” said Richard, forcing a careless laugh. “We
are beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, I promise you.”
No wonder that I shook my head!
“As you say, it’s not a pleasant subject.” Richard spoke with the
same shade crossing his face as before. “Let it go to the four winds for
to-night. Puff! Gone! Who do you suppose is with me?”
“Was it Mr. Skimpole’s voice I heard?”
“That’s the man! He does me more good than anybody. What a
fascinating child it is!”
I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down together.
He answered, no, nobody. He had been to call upon the dear old
infant—so he called Mr. Skimpole—and the dear old infant had
told him where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was
bent on coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted
to come too; and so he had brought him. “And he is worth—not to

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Bleak House

say his sordid expenses—but thrice his weight in gold,” said Richard.
“He is such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh and
green-hearted!”
I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole’s worldliness in
his having his expenses paid by Richard, but I made no remark about
that. Indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. He was charmed
to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joy and sym-
pathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had never been so
happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand the mixture
of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciated health the
more when somebody else was ill, didn’t know but what it might be
in the scheme of things that A should squint to make B happier in
looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg to make D
better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking.
“My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard,” said Mr.
Skimpole, “full of the brightest visions of the future, which he evokes
out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that’s delightful, that’s
inspiriting, that’s full of poetry! In old times the woods and solitudes
were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary piping and danc-
ing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd, our pastoral Ri-
chard, brightens the dull Inns of Court by making Fortune and her
train sport through them to the melodious notes of a judgment from
the bench. That’s very pleasant, you know! Some
ill-conditioned growling fellow may say to me, ‘What’s the use of
these legal and equitable abuses? How do you defend them?’ I reply,
‘My growling friend, I don’t defend them, but they are very agreeable
to me. There is a shepherd—youth, a friend of mine, who trans-
mutes them into something highly fascinating to my simplicity. I
don’t say it is for this that they exist—for I am a child among you
worldly grumblers, and not called upon to account to you or myself
for anything—but it may be so.’”
I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found a
worse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time when
he most required some right principle and purpose he should have
this captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airy dis-
pensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I thought I
could understand how such a nature as my guardian’s, experienced in

540
 Dickens

the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions and con-
tentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief in Mr.
Skimpole’s avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless candour;
but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as it seemed or that
it did not serve Mr. Skimpole’s idle turn quite as well as any other
part, and with less trouble.
They both walked back with me, and Mr. Skimpole leaving us
at the gate, I walked softly in with Richard and said, “Ada, my love,
I have brought a gentleman to visit you.” It was not difficult to
read the blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and he knew
it, and I knew it. It was a very transparent business, that meeting as
cousins only.
I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in my
suspicions, but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly.
He admired her very much—any one must have done that—and I
dare say would have renewed their youthful engagement with great
pride and ardour but that he knew how she would respect her prom-
ise to my guardian. Still I had a tormenting idea that the influence
upon him extended even here, that he was postponing his best truth
and earnestness in this as in all things until Jarndyce and Jarndyce
should be off his mind. Ah me! What Richard would have been
without that blight, I never shall know now!
He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come to
make any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too im-
plicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce, that he had
come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself for the
present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dear old
infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would make an
appointment for the morning, when he might set himself right through
the means of an unreserved conversation with me. I proposed to walk
with him in the park at seven o’clock, and this was arranged. Mr.
Skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made us merry for an hour.
He particularly requested to see little Coavinses (meaning Charley)
and told her, with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father all
the business in his power and that if one of her little brothers would
make haste to get set up in the same profession, he hoped he should
still be able to put a good deal of employment in his way.

541
Bleak House

“For I am constantly being taken in these nets,” said Mr. Skimpole,

looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, “and am
constantly being bailed out—like a boat. Or paid off—like a ship’s
company. Somebody always does it for me. I can’t do it, you know,
for I never have any money. But somebody does it. I get out by
somebody’s means; I am not like the starling; I get out. If you were
to ask me who somebody is, upon my word I couldn’t tell you. Let
us drink to somebody. God bless him!”
Richard was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait for
him long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewy
and the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; the sparkles
in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see; the richness of
the woods seemed to have increased twenty-fold since yesterday, as
if, in the still night when they had looked so massively hushed in
sleep, Nature, through all the minute details of every wonderful leaf,
had been more wakeful than usual for the glory of that day.
“This is a lovely place,” said Richard, looking round. “None of the
jar and discord of law-suits here!”
But there was other trouble.
“I tell you what, my dear girl,” said Richard, “when I get affairs in
general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and rest.”
“Would it not be better to rest now?” I asked.
“Oh, as to resting now,” said Richard, “or as to doing anything
very definite now, that’s not easy. In short, it can’t be done; I can’t do
it at least.”
“Why not?” said I.
“You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfinished
house, liable to have the roof put on or taken off—to be from top to
bottom pulled down or built up—to-morrow, next day, next week,
next month, next year—you would find it hard to rest or settle. So
do I. Now? There’s no now for us suitors.”
I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor
little wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again the darkened
look of last night. Terrible to think it bad in it also a shade of that
unfortunate man who had died.
“My dear Richard,” said I, “this is a bad beginning of our
conversation.”

542
 Dickens

“I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden.”

“And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned you
once never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse.”
“There you come back to John Jarndyce!” said Richard impatiently.
“Well! We must approach him sooner or later, for he is the staple of
what I have to say, and it’s as well at once. My dear Esther, how can you
be so blind? Don’t you see that he is an interested party and that it may
be very well for him to wish me to know nothing of the suit, and care
nothing about it, but that it may not be quite so well for me?”
“Oh, Richard,” I remonstrated, “is it possible that you can ever
have seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under his
roof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this solitary
place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy suspicions?”
He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang of re-
proach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in a subdued
voice, “Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a mean fellow and
that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being poor qualities
in one of my years.”
“I know it very well,” said I. “I am not more sure of anything.”
“That’s a dear girl,” retorted Richard, “and like you, because it gives
me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out of all this
business, for it’s a bad one at the best, as I have no occasion to tell you.”
“I know perfectly,” said I. “I know as well, Richard—what shall I
say? as well as you do—that such misconstructions are foreign to
your nature. And I know, as well as you know, what so changes it.”
“Come, sister, come,” said Richard a little more gaily, “you will be
fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to be under that
influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it may have a little
twisted him too. I don’t say that he is not an honourable man, out of
all this complication and uncertainty; I am sure he is. But it taints
everybody. You know it taints everybody. You have heard him say so
fifty times. Then why should he escape?”
“Because,” said I, “his is an uncommon character, and he has reso-
lutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard.”
“Oh, because and because!” replied Richard in his vivacious way. “I
am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and specious to
preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other parties inter-

543
Bleak House

ested to become lax about their interests; and people may die off,
and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things
may smoothly happen that are convenient enough.”
I was so touched with pity for Richard that I could not reproach
him any more, even by a look. I remembered my guardian’s gentle-
ness towards his errors and with what perfect freedom from resent-
ment he had spoken of them.
“Esther,” Richard resumed, “you are not to suppose that I have
come here to make underhanded charges against John Jarndyce. I
have only come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very well
and we got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless of this
same suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in it and to look
into it, then it was quite another thing. Then John Jarndyce discov-
ers that Ada and I must break off and that if I don’t amend that very
objectionable course, I am not fit for her. Now, Esther, I don’t mean
to amend that very objectionable course: I will not hold John
Jarndyce’s favour on those unfair terms of compromise, which he
has no right to dictate. Whether it pleases him or displeases him, I
must maintain my rights and Ada’s. I have been thinking about it a
good deal, and this is the conclusion I have come to.”
Poor dear Richard! He had indeed been thinking about it a good
deal. His face, his voice, his manner, all showed that too plainly.
“So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to him
about all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be at issue
openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and his protec-
tion, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, our roads are
not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, I should take much
more than he. I don’t mean to say that it is the one to be established,
but there it is, and it has its chance.”
“I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard,” said I, “of your
letter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angry word.”
“Indeed?” replied Richard, softening. “I am glad I said he was an
honourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I always say that
and have never doubted it. Now, my dear Esther, I know these views
of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to Ada when you
tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone into the case
as I have, if you had only applied yourself to the papers as I did when

544
 Dickens

I was at Kenge’s, if you only knew what an accumulation of charges

and counter-charges, and suspicions and cross-suspicions, they in-
volve, you would think me moderate in comparison.”
“Perhaps so,” said I. “But do you think that, among those many
papers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?”
“There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther—”
“Or was once, long ago,” said I.
“Is—is—must be somewhere,” pursued Richard impetuously, “and
must be brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-
money of is not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing
me; John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will change ev-
erybody who has any share in it. Then the greater right I have on my
side when I resolve to do all I can to bring it to an end.”
“All you can, Richard! Do you think that in these many years no
others have done all they could? Has the difficulty grown easier be-
cause of so many failures?”
“It can’t last for ever,” returned Richard with a fierceness
kindling in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder.
“I am young and earnest, and energy and determination have done
wonders many a time. Others have only half thrown themselves into
it. I devote myself to it. I make it the object of my life.”
“Oh, Richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse!”
“No, no, no, don’t you be afraid for me,” he returned affection-
ately. “You’re a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl;
but you have your prepossessions. So I come round to John
Jarndyce. I tell you, my good Esther, when he and I were on those
terms which he found so convenient, we were not on natural terms.”
“Are division and animosity your natural terms, Richard?”
“No, I don’t say that. I mean that all this business puts us on un-
natural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible. See
another reason for urging it on! I may find out when it’s over that I
have been mistaken in John Jarndyce. My head may be clearer when
I am free of it, and I may then agree with what you say to-day. Very
well. Then I shall acknowledge it and make him reparation.”
Everything postponed to that imaginary time! Everything held in
confusion and indecision until then!
“Now, my best of confidantes,” said Richard, “I want my cousin
Ada to understand that I am not captious, fickle, and wilful about
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John Jarndyce, but that I have this purpose and reason at my back. I
wish to represent myself to her through you, because she has a great
esteem and respect for her cousin John; and I know you will soften
the course I take, even though you disapprove of it; and—and in
short,” said Richard, who had been hesitating through these words,
“I—I don’t like to represent myself in this litigious, contentious,
doubting character to a confiding girl like Ada,”
I told him that he was more like himself in those latter words than
in anything he had said yet.
“Why,” acknowledged Richard, “that may be true enough, my love.
I rather feel it to be so. But I shall be able to give myself fair-play by
and by. I shall come all right again, then, don’t you be afraid.”
I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada.
“Not quite,” said Richard. “I am bound not to withhold from her
that John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner, address-
ing me as ‘My dear Rick,’ trying to argue me out of my opinions,
and telling me that they should make no difference in him. (All very
well of course, but not altering the case.) I also want Ada to know
that if I see her seldom just now, I am looking after her interests as
well as my own—we two being in the same boat exactly—and that I
hope she will not suppose from any flying rumours she may hear
that I am at all light-headed or imprudent; on the contrary, I am
always looking forward to the termination of the suit, and always
planning in that direction. Being of age now and having taken the
step I have taken, I consider myself free from any accountability to
John Jarndyce; but Ada being still a ward of the court, I don’t yet ask
her to renew our engagement. When she is free to act for herself, I
shall be myself once more and we shall both be in very different
worldly circumstances, I believe. If you tell her all this with the ad-
vantage of your considerate way, you will do me a very great and a
very kind service, my dear Esther; and I shall knock Jarndyce and
Jarndyce on the head with greater vigour. Of course I ask for no
secrecy at Bleak House.”
“Richard,” said I, “you place great confidence in me, but I fear you
will not take advice from me?”
“It’s impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On any
other, readily.”

546
 Dickens

As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career and
character were not being dyed one colour!
“But I may ask you a question, Richard?”
“I think so,” said he, laughing. “I don’t know who may not, if you
may not.”
“You say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life.”
“How can I, my dear Esther, with nothing settled!”
“Are you in debt again?”
“Why, of course I am,” said Richard, astonished at my simplicity.
“Is it of course?”
“My dear child, certainly. I can’t throw myself into an object so
completely without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don’t know,
that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. It’s only a
question between the larger sum and the smaller. I shall be within the
mark any way. Bless your heart, my excellent girl,” said Richard, quite
amused with me, “I shall be all right! I shall pull through, my dear!”
I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that I tried,
in Ada’s name, in my guardian’s, in my own, by every fervent means
that I could think of, to warn him of it and to show him some of his
mistakes. He received everything I said with patience and gentleness,
but it all rebounded from him without taking the least effect. I could
not wonder at this after the reception his preoccupied mind had given
to my guardian’s letter, but I determined to try Ada’s influence yet.
So when our walk brought us round to the village again, and I
went home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was going
to give her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that
Richard was losing himself and scattering his whole life to the winds.
It made her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far, far greater
reliance on his correcting his errors than I could have—which was so
natural and loving in my dear!—and she presently wrote him this
little letter:

My dearest cousin,

Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I write this to
repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you and to let you
know how sure I am that you will sooner or later find our cousin

547
Bleak House

John a pattern of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when you will deeply,
deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it) so much wrong.
I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next, but I
trust you will understand it as I mean it. I have some fears, my dear-
est cousin, that it may be partly for my sake you are now laying up so
much unhappiness for yourself—and if for yourself, for me. In case
this should be so, or in case you should entertain much thought of
me in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreat and beg you to
desist. You can do nothing for my sake that will make me half so
happy as for ever turning your back upon the shadow in which we
both were born. Do not be angry with me for saying this. Pray, pray,
dear Richard, for my sake, and for your own, and in a natural repug-
nance for that source of trouble which had its share in making us
both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let it go for ever.
We have reason to know by this time that there is no good in it and
no hope, that there is nothing to be got from it but sorrow.
My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are quite
free and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you will
love much better than your first fancy. I am quite sure, if you will let
me say so, that the object of your choice would greatly prefer to
follow your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or poor, and
see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosen way, than
to have the hope of being, or even to be, very rich with you (if such
a thing were possible) at the cost of dragging years of procrastination
and anxiety and of your indifference to other aims. You may wonder
at my saying this so confidently with so little knowledge or experi-
ence, but I know it for a certainty from my own heart.
Ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionate

Ada

This note brought Richard to us very soon, but it made little change
in him if any. We would fairly try, he said, who was right and who
was wrong—he would show us—we should see! He was animated
and glowing, as if Ada’s tenderness had gratified him; but I could
only hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have some stronger
effect upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had then.

548
 Dickens

As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places
to return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity of
speaking to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily threw one in
my way, and I delicately said that there was a responsibility in en-
couraging Richard.
“Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?” he repeated, catching
at the word with the pleasantest smile. “I am the last man in the world
for such a thing. I never was responsible in my life—I can’t be.”
“I am afraid everybody is obliged to be,” said I timidly enough, he
being so much older and more clever than I.
“No, really?” said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light with a
most agreeable jocularity of surprise. “But every man’s not obliged to
be solvent? I am not. I never was. See, my dear Miss Summerson,”
he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence from his pocket,
“there’s so much money. I have not an idea how much. I have not the
power of counting. Call it four and ninepence—call it four pound
nine. They tell me I owe more than that. I dare say I do. I dare say I
owe as much as good-natured people will let me owe. If they don’t
stop, why should I? There you have Harold Skimpole in little. If
that’s responsibility, I am responsible.”
The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again
and looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had been
mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost made
me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.
“Now, when you mention responsibility,” he resumed, “I am dis-
posed to say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom I
should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. You appear to me
to be the very touchstone of responsibility. When I see you, my dear
Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect working of the whole little
orderly system of which you are the centre, I feel inclined to say to my-
self—in fact I do say to myself very often—that’s responsibility!”
It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but I persisted
so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not confirm
Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.
“Most willingly,” he retorted, “if I could. But, my dear Miss
Summerson, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the hand
and leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession after

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fortune, I must go. If he says, ‘Skimpole, join the dance!’ I must join
it. Common sense wouldn’t, I know, but I have no common sense.”
It was very unfortunate for Richard, I said.
“Do you think so!” returned Mr. Skimpole. “Don’t say that, don’t say
that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense—an
excellent man—a good deal wrinkled—dreadfully practical—change for
a ten-pound note in every pocket—ruled account-book in his hand—
say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer. Our dear Richard, san-
guine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with poetry like a young
bud, says to this highly respectable companion, ‘I see a golden prospect
before me; it’s very bright, it’s very beautiful, it’s very joyous; here I go,
bounding over the landscape to come at it!’ The respectable companion
instantly knocks him down with the ruled account-book; tells him in a
literal, prosaic way that he sees no such thing; shows him it’s nothing but
fees, fraud, horsehair wigs, and black gowns. Now you know that’s a
painful change—sensible in the last degree, I have no doubt, but dis-
agreeable. I can’t do it. I haven’t got the ruled account-book, I have none
of the tax-gatherlng elements in my composition, I am not at all respect-
able, and I don’t want to be. Odd perhaps, but so it is!”
It was idle to say more, so I proposed that we should join Ada and
Richard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. Skimpole in
despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of the morning and
whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. There were
such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Dedlock dead and
gone, he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons of assault in
their hands. They tended their flocks severely in buckram and powder
and put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners as the
chiefs of some other tribes put on their war-paint. There was a Sir
Somebody Dedlock, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke,
flashes of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full action
between his horse’s two hind legs, showing, he supposed, how little a
Dedlock made of such trifles. The whole race he represented as having
evidently been, in life, what he called “stuffed people”—a large collec-
tion, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their various
twigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from animation, and
always in glass cases.
I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that I felt
it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise, hurried away to
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meet a stranger whom he first descried coming slowly towards us.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Skimpole. “Vholes!”
We asked if that were a friend of Richard’s.
“Friend and legal adviser,” said Mr. Skimpole. “Now, my dear Miss
Summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, and respect-
ability, all united—if you want an exemplary man—Vholes is the man.”
We had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by any gentle-
man of that name.
“When he emerged from legal infancy,” returned Mr. Skimpole,
“he parted from our conversational friend Kenge and took up, I be-
lieve, with Vholes. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him
to Vholes.”
“Had you known him long?” asked Ada.
“Vholes? My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of acquaintance
with him which I have had with several gentlemen of his profession.
He had done something or other in a very agreeable, civil manner—
taken proceedings, I think, is the expression—which ended in the pro-
ceeding of his taking me. Somebody was so good as to step in and pay
the money—something and fourpence was the amount; I forget
the pounds and shillings, but I know it ended with fourpence,
because it struck me at the time as being so odd that I could owe
anybody fourpence—and after that I brought them together. Vholes
asked me for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to think of
it,” he looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he made the
discovery, “Vholes bribed me, perhaps? He gave me something and
called it commission. Was it a five-pound note? Do you know, I
think it must have been a five-pound note!”
His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard’s
coming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing Mr.
Vholes—a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were
cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin, about
fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. Dressed in black,
black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so re-
markable in him as a lifeless manner and a slow, fixed way he
had of looking at Richard.
“I hope I don’t disturb you, ladies,” said Mr. Vholes, and now I
observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner of

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speaking. “I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should always know

when his cause was in the Chancelor’s paper, and being informed by
one of my clerks last night after post time that it stood, rather unex-
pectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put myself into the coach
early this morning and came down to confer with him.”
“Yes,” said Richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at Ada and
me, “we don’t do these things in the old slow way now. We spin
along now! Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get over to the
post town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!”
“Anything you please, sir,” returned Mr. Vholes. “I am quite at
your service.”
“Let me see,” said Richard, looking at his watch. “If I run down to the
Dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and order a gig, or a chaise,
or whatever’s to be got, we shall have an hour then before starting. I’ll
come back to tea. Cousin Ada, will you and Esther take care of Mr. Vholes
when I am gone?”
He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost in
the dusk of evening. We who were left walked on towards the house.
“Is Mr. Carstone’s presence necessary to-morrow, Sir?” said I. “Can
it do any good?”
“No, miss,” Mr. Vholes replied. “I am not aware that it can.”
Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should go, then, only
to be disappointed.
“Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his own
interests,” said Mr. Vholes, “and when a client lays down his own
principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it out.
I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower with three
daughters—Emma, Jane, and Caroline—and my desire is so to dis-
charge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. This appears
to be a pleasant spot, miss.”
The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next
him as we walked, I assented and enumerated its chief attractions.
“Indeed?” said Mr. Vholes. “I have the privilege of supporting an aged
father in the Vale of Taunton—his native place—and I admire that country
very much. I had no idea there was anything so attractive here.”
To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would like
to live altogether in the country.

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“There, miss,” said he, “you touch me on a tender string. My health

is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I had only
myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits, especially as
the cares of business have prevented me from ever coming much into
contact with general society, and particularly with ladies’ society, which
I have most wished to mix in. But with my three daughters, Emma,
Jane, and Caroline—and my aged father—I cannot afford to be self-
ish. It is true I have no longer to maintain a dear grandmother who
died in her hundred and second year, but enough remains to render it
indispensable that the mill should be always going.”
It required some attention to hear him on account of his inward
speaking and his lifeless manner.
“You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters,” he said.
“They are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some little
independence, as well as a good name.”
We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn’s house, where the tea-table, all
prepared, was awaiting us. Richard came in restless and hurried shortly
afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Vholes’s chair, whispered something
in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud—or as nearly aloud I suppose as he
had ever replied to anything—”You will drive me, will you, sir? It is all
the same to me, sir. Anything you please. I am quite at your service.”
We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to be
left until the morning to occupy the two places which had been
already paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning
Richard and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as we
politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the Dedlock
Arms and retire when the night-travellers were gone.
Richard’s high spirits carrying everything before them, we all went
out together to the top of the hill above the village, where he had
ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern stand-
ing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been harnessed to it.
I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern’s
light, Richard all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in his
hand; Mr. Vholes quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, look-
ing at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it. I have
before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the summer
lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows and high

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trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and the driving
away at speed to Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
My dear girl told me that night how Richard’s being thereafter
prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this
difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging
heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him;
how he thought of her through his present errors, and she would
think of him at all times—never of herself if she could devote herself
to him, never of her own delights if she could minister to his.
And she kept her word?
I look along the road before me, where the distance already short-
ens and the journey’s end is growing visible; and true and good above
the dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruit it cast ashore,
I think I see my darling.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Struggle
WHEN OUR TIME CAME for returning to Bleak House again, we were
punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering wel-
come. I was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my
housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if
I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. “Once more, duty,
duty, Esther,” said I; “and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more
than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything,
you ought to be. That’s all I have to say to you, my dear!”
The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and
business, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated jour-
neys to and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house,
so many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general
new beginning altogether, that I had not a moment’s leisure. But
when these arrangements were completed and everything was in or-
der, I paid a visit of a few hours to London, which something in the
letter I had destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced me to decide
upon in my own mind.
I made Caddy Jellyby—her maiden name was so natural to me that
I always called her by it—the pretext for this visit and wrote her a note
previously asking the favour of her company on a little business expe-
dition. Leaving home very early in the morning, I got to London by
stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman Street with the
day before me.
Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad
and so affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her
husband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad—I mean as good;

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and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any
possibility of doing anything meritorious.
The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was
milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an
apprentice—it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the
trade of dancing—was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law
was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived
most happily together. (When she spoke of their living together, she
meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the
good lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get,
and were poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)
“And how is your mama, Caddy?” said I.
“Why, I hear of her, Esther,” replied Caddy, “through Pa, but I see
very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma
thinks there is something absurd in my having married a dancing-
master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her.”
It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope in
search of others, she would have taken the best precautions against
becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observe that I kept this to myself.
“And your papa, Caddy?”
“He comes here every evening,” returned Caddy, “and is so fond of
sitting in the corner there that it’s a treat to see him.”
Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr.
Jellyby’s head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that he
had found such a resting-place for it.
“And you, Caddy,” said I, “you are always busy, I’ll be bound?”
“Well, my dear,” returned Caddy, “I am indeed, for to tell you a
grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince’s health is
not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What with schools,
and classes here, and private pupils, and the apprentices, he really has
too much to do, poor fellow!”
The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I asked
Caddy if there were many of them.
“Four,” said Caddy. “One in-door, and three out. They are very
good children; only when they get together they will play—chil-
dren-like—instead of attending to their work. So the little boy you

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saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen, and we dis-
tribute the others over the house as well as we can.”
“That is only for their steps, of course?” said I.
“Only for their steps,” said Caddy. “In that way they practise, so
many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. They
dance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures at five
every morning.”
“Why, what a laborious life!” I exclaimed.
“I assure you, my dear,” returned Caddy, smiling, “when the out-
door apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our
room, not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up the
window and see them standing on the door-step with their little
pumps under their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps.”
All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully re-
counted the particulars of her own studies.
“You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of
the piano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, and conse-
quently I have to practise those two instruments as well as the details
of our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, I might have
had some little musical knowledge to begin upon. However, I hadn’t
any; and that part of the work is, at first, a little discouraging, I must
allow. But I have a very good ear, and I am used to drudgery—I have
to thank Ma for that, at all events—and where there’s a will there’s a
way, you know, Esther, the world over.” Saying these words, Caddy
laughingly sat down at a little jingling square piano and really rattled
off a quadrille with great spirit. Then she good-humouredly and blush-
ingly got up again, and while she still laughed herself, said, “Don’t
laugh at me, please; that’s a dear girl!”
I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her and
praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed, danc-
ing-master’s wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in
her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a natural,
wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that was quite
as good as a mission.
“My dear,” said Caddy, delighted, “you can’t think how you cheer
me. I shall owe you, you don’t know how much. What changes, Esther,

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even in my small world! You recollect that first night, when I was so
unpolite and inky? Who would have thought, then, of my ever teach-
ing people to dance, of all other possibilities and impossibilities!”
Her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now coming
back, preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room,
Caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not my
time yet, I was glad to tell her, for I should have been vexed to take
her away then. Therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices to-
gether, and I made one in the dance.
The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the melan-
choly boy, who, I hoped, had not been made so by waltzing alone in
the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirty little
limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl, with such a
dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), who brought her
sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. Such mean little
boys, when they were not dancing, with string, and marbles, and
cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legs and feet—
and heels particularly.
I asked Caddy what had made their parents choose this profession
for them. Caddy said she didn’t know; perhaps they were designed for
teachers, perhaps for the stage. They were all people in humble circum-
stances, and the melancholy boy’s mother kept a ginger-beer shop.
We danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy child
doing wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared
to be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist.
Caddy, while she was observant of her husband and was evidently
founded upon him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her
own, which, united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly
agreeable. She already relieved him of much of the instruction of
these young people, and he seldom interfered except to walk his part
in the figure if he had anything to do in it. He always played the
tune. The affectation of the gauzy child, and her condescension to
the boys, was a sight. And thus we danced an hour by the clock.
When the practice was concluded, Caddy’s husband made himself
ready to go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran away to get ready
to go out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval, contemplat-
ing the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon the staircase

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to put on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy’s hair, as I judged
from the nature of his objections. Returning with their jackets but-
toned and their pumps stuck in them, they then produced packets of
cold bread and meat and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the
wall. The little gauzy child, having whisked her sandals into the reti-
cule and put on a trodden-down pair of shoes, shook her head into
the dowdy bonnet at one shake, and answering my inquiry whether
she liked dancing by replying, “Not with boys,” tied it across her
chin, and went home contemptuous.
“Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry,” said Caddy, “that he has not
finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you be-
fore you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther.”
I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it nec-
essary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.
“It takes him a long time to dress,” said Caddy, “because he is very
much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation
to support. You can’t think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa of an
evening about the Prince Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested.”
There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing
his deportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked
Caddy if he brought her papa out much.
“No,” said Caddy, “I don’t know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course I
am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get
on together delightfully. You can’t think what good companions they
make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one
pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop’s box regularly and keeps putting it to
his nose and taking it away again all the evening.”
That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of life,
have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha appeared to
me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.
“As to Peepy,” said Caddy with a little hesitation, “whom I was
most afraid of—next to having any family of my own, Esther—as
an inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentle-
man to that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear!
He lets him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the
crusts of his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the

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house; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,” said Caddy

cheerily, “and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl and ought to be
very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?”
“To the Old Street Road,” said I, “where I have a few words to say
to the solicitor’s clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office
on the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my dear.
Now I think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house.”
“Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,”
returned Caddy.
To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs.
Guppy’s residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the
parlours and having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself
like a nut in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was
asked for, immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in.
She was an old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was
prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it which, I
had almost written here, was more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not
to let him off.
Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there
too. He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a
table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, rising, “this is indeed an oa-
sis. Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady
and get out of the gangway.”
Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,
with both hands.
I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine
was more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.
“I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir,” said I.
Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his breast-
pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket with a
bow. Mr. Guppy’s mother was so diverted that she rolled her head as
she smiled and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.

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 Dickens

“Could I speak to you alone for a moment?” said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy’s mother just now, I
think I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her
head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and
appealed to Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder,
and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some
difficulty she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door
into her bedroom adjoining.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, “you will excuse the way-
wardness of a parent ever mindful of a son’s appiness. My mother,
though highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal
dictates.”
I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment
have turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I
now put up my veil.
“I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here,” said I,
“in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge’s because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I
feared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy.”
I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw
such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.
“Miss Summerson,” stammered Mr. Guppy, “I—I—beg your par-
don, but in our profession—we—we—find it necessary to be explicit.
You have referred to an occasion, miss, when I—when I did myself the
honour of making a declaration which—”
Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to
swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the
room, and fluttered his papers.
“A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss,” he explained,
“which rather knocks me over. I—er—a little subject to this sort of
thing—er—by George!”
I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.
“My intention was to remark, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “dear me—
something bronchial, I think—hem!—to remark that you was so

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good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration.

You—you wouldn’t perhaps object to admit that? Though no wit-
nesses are present, it might be a satisfaction to—to your mind—if
you was to put in that admission.”
“There can be no doubt,” said I, “that I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy.”
“Thank you, miss,” he returned, measuring the table with his
troubled hands. “So far that’s satisfactory, and it does you credit.
Er—this is certainly bronchial!—must be in the tubes—er—you
wouldn’t perhaps be offended if I was to mention—not that it’s nec-
essary, for your own good sense or any person’s sense must show ‘em
that—if I was to mention that such declaration on my part was final,
and there terminated?”
“I quite understand that,” said I.
“Perhaps—er—it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind—perhaps you wouldn’t object to admit
that, miss?” said Mr. Guppy.
“I admit it most fully and freely,” said I.
“Thank you,” returned Mr. Guppy. “Very honourable, I am sure.
I regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances
over which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall
back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever,
but it will ever be a retrospect entwined—er—with friendship’s bow-
ers.” Mr. Guppy’s bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his mea-
surement of the table.
“I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?” I
began.
“I shall be honoured, I am sure,” said Mr. Guppy. “I am so per-
suaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will—will
keep you as square as possible—that I can have nothing but pleasure,
I am sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer.”
“You were so good as to imply, on that occasion—”
“Excuse me, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, “but we had better not
travel out of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I
implied anything.”
“You said on that occasion,” I recommenced, “that you might pos-
sibly have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my

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fortunes by making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I

presume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge
of my being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevo-
lence of Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I
have come to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kind-
ness to relinquish all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this
sometimes, and I have thought of it most lately—since I have been
ill. At length I have decided, in case you should at any time recall that
purpose and act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you
that you are altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in
reference to me that would do me the least service or give me the
least pleasure. I am acquainted with my personal history, and I have
it in my power to assure you that you never can advance my welfare
by such means. You may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a
long time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I
entreat you, on the assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it
aside. I beg you to do this, for my peace.”
“I am bound to confess,” said Mr. Guppy, “that you express your-
self, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you
credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and
if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to
tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as hereby
offering that apology—limiting it, as your own good sense and right
feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present proceedings.”
I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had
upon him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to
do something I asked, and he looked ashamed.
“If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that I
may have no occasion to resume,” I went on, seeing him about to
speak, “you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as
possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a
confidence which I have really wished to respect—and which I al-
ways have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness.
There really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know
very well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request
to you is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now
preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me to

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accede to it.”
I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had
looked more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed
and very earnest when he now replied with a burning face, “Upon
my word and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson,
as I am a living man, I’ll act according to your wish! I’ll never go
another step in opposition to it. I’ll take my oath to it if it will be
any satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touch-
ing the matters now in question,” continued Mr. Guppy rapidly, as
if he were repeating a familiar form of words, “I speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so—”
“I am quite satisfied,” said I, rising at this point, “and I thank you
very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!”
Mr. Guppy’s mother returned with Caddy (now making me the
recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our
leave. Mr. Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was
either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him
there, staring.
But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat,
and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fer-
vently, “Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may de-
pend upon me!”
“I do,” said I, “quite confidently.”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg
and staying with the other, “but this lady being present—your own
witness—it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should
wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.”
“Well, Caddy,” said I, turning to her, “perhaps you will not be
surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any
engagement—”
“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” suggested Mr.
Guppy.
“No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever,” said I, “between
this gentleman—”
“William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of
Middlesex,” he murmured.
“Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy, of Penton Place,

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Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Mr. Guppy. “Very full—er—excuse me—
lady’s name, Christian and surname both?”
I gave them.
“Married woman, I believe?” said Mr. Guppy. “Married woman.
Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn,
within the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman
Street, Oxford Street. Much obliged.”
He ran home and came running back again.
“Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry
that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which
I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly ter-
minated some time back,” said Mr. Guppy to me forlornly and de-
spondently, “but it couldn’t be. Now could it, you know! I only put
it to you.”
I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a doubt.
He thanked me and ran to his mother’s again—and back again.
“It’s very honourable of you, miss, I am sure,” said Mr. Guppy. “If
an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship—but, upon my
soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except the
tender passion only!”
The struggle in Mr. Guppy’s breast and the numerous oscillations
it occasioned him between his mother’s door and us were sufficiently
conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted cut-
ting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but
when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating in the
same troubled state of mind.

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CHAPTER XXXIX

Attorney and Client

The name of Mr. Vholes, preceded by the legend Ground-Floor, is
inscribed upon a door-post in Symond’s Inn, Chancery Lane—a little,
pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn of two com-
partments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were a sparing man in
his way and constructed his inn of old building materials which took
kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and dismal,
and perpetuated Symond’s memory with congenial shabbiness. Quar-
tered in this dingy hatchment commemorative of Symond are the
legal bearings of Mr. Vholes.
Mr. Vholes’s office, in disposition retiring and in situation
retired, is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall.
Three feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr.
Vholes’s jet-black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest
midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of
cellarage staircase against which belated civilians generally strike their
brows. Mr. Vholes’s chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk
can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other who
elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for poking the fire. A
smell as of unwholesome sheep blending with the smell of must and
dust is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of
mutton fat in candles and to the fretting of parchment forms and
skins in greasy drawers. The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close.
The place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of
man, and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface
of soot evervwhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy
frames have but one piece of character in them, which is a determina-

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tion to be always dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts
for the phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle
of firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather.
Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large business,
but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater attorneys
who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most re-
spectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice, which is a
mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure, which is another
mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another
mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly re-
spectable. And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for his three
daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale of Taunton.
The one great principle of the English law is to make business for
itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and consis-
tently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by this
light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze the
laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive that its
grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, and
surely they will cease to grumble.
But not perceiving this quite plainly—only seeing it by halves in a
confused way—the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with
a bad grace, and do grumble very much. Then this respectability of
Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play against them. “Repeal this
statute, my good sir?” says Mr. Kenge to a smarting client. “Repeal it,
my dear sir? Never, with my consent. Alter this law, sir, and what
will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of practitioners
very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by the opposite
attorney in the case, Mr. Vholes? Sir, that class of practitioners would
be swept from the face of the earth. Now you cannot afford—I will
say, the social system cannot afford—to lose an order of men like
Mr. Vholes. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute in business. My dear
sir, I understand your present feelings against the existing state of
things, which I grant to be a little hard in your case; but I can never
raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr. Vholes.”
The respectability of Mr. Vholes has even been cited with crushing
effect before Parliamentary committees, as in the following blue
minutes of a distinguished attorney’s evidence. “Question (number

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five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine):

If I understand you, these forms of practice indisputably occasion
delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question: And great expense? An-
swer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone through for nothing. Ques-
tion: And unspeakable vexation? Answer: I am not prepared to say
that. They have never given me any vexation; quite the contrary.
Question: But you think that their abolition would damage a class
of practitioners? Answer: I have no doubt of it. Question: Can you
instance any type of that class? Answer: Yes. I would unhesitatingly
mention Mr. Vholes. He would be ruined. Question: Mr. Vholes is
considered, in the profession, a respectable man? Answer: “—which
proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years—”Mr. Vholes is considered,
in the profession, a most respectable man.”
So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less disinter-
ested will remark that they don’t know what this age is
coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is
something else gone, that these changes are death to people like
Vholes—a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale
of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in
this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes’s father? Is
he to perish? And of Vholes’s daughters? Are they to be shirt-makers,
or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and his relations being minor
cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish cannibalism, indig-
nant champions were to put the case thus: Make man-eating unlaw-
ful, and you starve the Vholeses!
In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father in
the Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber,
to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a
nuisance. And with a great many people in a great many instances,
the question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is
quite an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or
advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.
The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, “up” for the long
vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags
hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of ser-
pents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the official den.
Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much respectability

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ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he were skinning his
hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were scalping himself, and sits
down at his desk. The client throws his hat and gloves upon the
ground—tosses them anywhere, without looking after them or car-
ing where they go; flings himself into a chair, half sighing and half
groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and looks the portrait
of young despair.
“Again nothing done!” says Richard. “Nothing, nothing done!”
“Don’t say nothing done, sir,” returns the placid Vholes. “That is
scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!”
“Why, what IS done?” says Richard, turning gloomily upon him.
“That may not be the whole question,” returns Vholes, “The ques-
tion may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?”
“And what is doing?” asks the moody client.
Vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips
of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers, and
quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at his
client, replies, “A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our shoulders
to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round.”
“Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or
five accursed months?” exclaims the young man, rising from his chair
and walking about the room.
“Mr. C.,” returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes wher-
ever he goes, “your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on your
account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much, not
to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have
more patience. You should sustain yourself better.”
“I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?” says Richard, sitting
down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil’s tattoo
with his boot on the patternless carpet.
“Sir,” returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he were
making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his
professional appetite. “Sir,” returns Vholes with his inward manner
of speech and his bloodless quietude, “I should not have had the
presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any
man’s. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and
that is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention

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me so pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to

you a little of my—come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility,
and I am sure I have no objection—say insensibility—a little of my
insensibility.”
“Mr. Vholes,” explains the client, somewhat abashed, “I had no
intention to accuse you of insensibility.”
“I think you had, sir, without knowing it,” returns the equable
Vholes. “Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your interests with
a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited feelings
I may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. My daughters
may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But they
have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye
of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. Not that I com-
plain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the contrary.
In attending to your interests, I wish to have all possible checks upon
me; it is right that I should have them; I court inquiry. But your
interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone;
and I cannot be otherwise—no, sir, not even to please you.”
Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently watching
a mouse’s hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young client and
proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if there were an un-
clean spirit in him that will neither come out nor speak out, “What are
you to do, sir, you inquire, during the vacation. I should hope you gentle-
men of the army may find many means of amusing yourselves if you
give your minds to it. If you had asked me what I was to do during the
vacation, I could have answered you more readily. I am to attend to your
interests. I am to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests.
That is my duty, Mr. C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference
to me. If you wish to consult me as to your interests, you will find me
here at all times alike. Other professional men go out of town. I don’t.
Not that I blame them for going; I merely say I don’t go. This desk is
your rock, sir!”
Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. Not
to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound to him.
Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.
“I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes,” says Richard, more familiarly
and good-humouredly, “that you are the most reliable fellow in the

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 Dickens

world and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of

business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my case,
dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into diffi-
culty every day, continually hoping and continually disappointed,
conscious of change upon change for the worse in myself, and of no
change for the better in anything else, and you will find it a dark-
looking case sometimes, as I do.”
“You know,” says Mr. Vholes, “that I never give hopes, sir. I told
you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly in a
case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of the
estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave hopes.
It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say there is
no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact, deny that.”
“Aye?” returns Richard, brightening. “But how do you make it out?”
“Mr. Carstone, you are represented by—”
“You said just now—a rock.”
“Yes, sir,” says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the
hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust
on dust, “a rock. That’s something. You are separately represented,
and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. That’s some-
thing. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk it
about. That’s something. It’s not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as in
name. That’s something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.
And that’s something, surely.”
Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his
clenched hand.
“Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John
Jarndyce’s house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he
seemed—that he was what he has gradually turned out to be—I could
have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not
have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of the world!
Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodi-
ment of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is John
Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him;
that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new
injury from John Jarndyce’s hand.”
“No, no,” says vholes. “Don’t say so. We ought to have patience,

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all of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage.”

“Mr. Vholes,” returns the angry client. “You know as well as I that
he would have strangled the suit if he could.”
“He was not active in it,” Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance
of reluctance. “He certainly was not active in it. But however, but
however, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the
heart, Mr. C.!”
“You can,” returns Richard.
“I, Mr. C.?”
“Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not
our interests conflicting? Tell—me—that!” says Richard, accompa-
nying his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.
“Mr. C.,” returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never wink-
ing his hungry eyes, “I should be wanting in my duty as your profes-
sional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your inter-
ests, if I represented those interests as identical with the interests of
Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I never impute motives; I
both have and am a father, and I never impute motives. But I must
not shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in
families. I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as
to your interests? You are so? I reply, then, they are not identical with
those of Mr. Jarndyce.”
“Of course they are not!” cries Richard. “You found that out
long ago.”
“Mr. C.,” returns Vholes, “I wish to say no more of any third
party than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied,
together with any little property of which I may become possessed
through industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane,
and Caroline. I also desire to live in amity with my professional breth-
ren. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir—I will not say the
very high honour, for I never stoop to flattery—of bringing us to-
gether in this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no opin-
ion or advice as to your interests while those interests were entrusted
to another member of the profession. And I spoke in such terms as I
was bound to speak of Kenge and Carboy’s office, which stands high.
You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping
nevertheless and to offer them to me. You brought them with clean

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hands, sir, and I accepted them with clean hands. Those interests are
now paramount in this office. My digestive functions, as you may
have heard me mention, are not in a good state, and rest might im-
prove them; but I shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative.
Whenever you want me, you will find me here. Summon me any-
where, and I will come. During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote
my leisure to studying your interests more and more closely and to
making arrangements for moving heaven and earth (including, of
course, the Chancellor) after Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately
congratulate you, sir,” says Mr. Vholes with the severity of a deter-
mined man, “when I ultimately congratulate you, sir, with all my
heart, on your accession to fortune—which, but that I never give
hopes, I might say something further about—you will owe me nothing
beyond whatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs
as between solicitor and client not included in the taxed costs al-
lowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but
for the zealous and active discharge—not the languid and routine
discharge, sir: that much credit I stipulate for—of my professional
duty. My duty prosperously ended, all between us is ended.”
Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his prin-
ciples, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment, perhaps
Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty pounds
on account.
“For there have been many little consultations and attendances of
late, sir,” observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary, “and
these things mount up, and I don’t profess to be a man of capital.
When we first entered on our present relations I stated to you openly—
it is a principle of mine that there never can be too much openness
between solicitor and client—that I was not a man of capital and
that if capital was your object you had better leave your papers in
Kenge’s office. No, Mr. C., you will find none of the advantages or
disadvantages of capital here, sir. This,” Vholes gives the desk one
hollow blow again, “is your rock; it pretends to be nothing more.”
The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague
hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without
perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear, im-
plying scant effects in the agent’s hands. All the while, Vholes, but-

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toned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the while,
Vholes’s official cat watches the mouse’s hole.
Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, for heaven’s
sake and earth’s sake, to do his utmost to “pull him through” the
Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives hopes, lays his palm
upon the client’s shoulder and answers with a smile, “Always here,
sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir, with my
shoulder to the wheel.” Thus they part, and Vholes, left alone, em-
ploys himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his diary into
his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three daughters. So
might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of chickens or
stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to disparage by that word
the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up maidens who dwell
with the parent Vholes in an earthy cottage situated in a damp gar-
den at Kennington.
Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond’s Inn into the
sunshine of Chancery Lane—for there happens to be sunshine there
to-day—walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln’s Inn, and passes
under the shadow of the Lincoln’s Inn trees. On many such loungers
have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on the like bent
head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering step, the purpose-
less and dreamy air, the good consuming and consumed, the life turned
sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but that may come. Chancery,
which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is very rich in such prece-
dents; and why should one be different from ten thousand?
Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he saun-
ters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months together,
though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own case as if it were
a startling one. While his heart is heavy with corroding care, suspense,
distrust, and doubt, it may have room for some sorrowful wonder
when he recalls how different his first visit there, how different he,
how different all the colours of his mind. But injustice breeds injus-
tice; the fighting with shadows and being defeated by them necessi-
tates the setting up of substances to combat; from the impalpable suit
which no man alive can understand, the time for that being long gone
by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure of the
friend who would have saved him from this ruin and make him his

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 Dickens

enemy. Richard has told Vholes the truth. Is he in a hardened or a

softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally at that door; he was
thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and that purpose could only
originate in the one subject that is resolving his existence into itself;
besides, it is a justification to him in his own eyes to have an embodied
antagonist and oppressor.
Is Richard a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found rich
in such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the
Recording Angel?
Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed
up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and Mr.
Weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in
conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes
close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.
“William,” says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, “there’s
combustion going on there! It’s not a case of spontaneous, but it’s
smouldering combustion it is.”
“Ah!” says Mr. Guppy. “He wouldn’t keep out of Jarndyce, and I
suppose he’s over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him.
He was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place.
A good riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as
I was mentioning is what they’re up to.”
Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the para-
pet, as resuming a conversation of interest.
“They are still up to it, sir,” says Mr. Guppy, “still taking
stock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of
rubbish. At this rate they’ll be at it these seven years.”
“And Small is helping?”
“Small left us at a week’s notice. Told Kenge his grandfather’s busi-
ness was too much for the old gentleman and he could better himself
by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself and
Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I began
it, and as he had me there—for we did—I put our acquaintance on
the old footing. That’s how I come to know what they’re up to.”
“You haven’t looked in at all?”
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, “to be unreserved

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with you, I don’t greatly relish the house, except in your company,
and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little appoint-
ment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by the
clock! Tony”—Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly elo-
quent—”it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once
more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a
melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that unre-
quited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That
image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in
connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the
court with your aid as a friend is to let ‘em alone and bury ‘em in
oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I put
it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that capricious
and deep old character who fell a prey to the—spontaneous element,
do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts he put
those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that they
were not destroyed that night?”
Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly
thinks not.
“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, “once again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further explana-
tions, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose to serve
now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I owe it to
myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the circumstances
over which I have no control. If you was to express to me by a gesture,
by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings any pa-
pers that so much as looked like the papers in question, I would pitch
them into the fire, sir, on my own responsibility.”
Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion
by having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic
and in part romantic—this gentleman having a passion for conduct-
ing anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything
in the form of a summing up or a speech—accompanies his friend
with dignity to the court.
Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus’ purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop. Regularly,
every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought down to

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the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed, Judy,

and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there until nine at
night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in quantity, from the
cook’s shop, rummaging and searching, digging, delving, and diving
among the treasures of the late lamented. What those treasures are
they keep so secret that the court is maddened. In its delirium it
imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots, crown-pieces overflowing
punch-bowls, old chairs
and mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself
of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece)
of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suf-
folk, and transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr.
Krook. Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of
old paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and
pries into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentle-
men who write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are
seen prowling in the neighbourhood—shy of each other, their late
partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the
prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in
what are professionally known as “patter” allusions to the subject, is
received with loud applause; and the same vocalist “gags” in the regu-
lar business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in the
revived Caledonian melody of “We’re a-Nodding,” points the senti-
ment that “the dogs love broo” (whatever the nature of that refresh-
ment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head to-
wards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.
Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double
encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appear-
ance is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover everything, and more.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court’s head
upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented’s house, in
a high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court’s expecta-
tion admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are consid-
ered to mean no good.
The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the

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ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into

the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but they
gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair upon
the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Judy groping
therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Smallweed on the level ground
in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print, and
manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments
that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a
fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room.
There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier if
possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and
even with his chalked writing on the wall.
On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simulta-
neously fold their arms and stop in their researches.
“Aha!” croaks the old gentleman. “How de do, gentlemen, how de
do! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That’s well, that’s well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your
warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at
home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!”
Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy’s eye
follows Mr. Weevle’s eye. Mr. Weevle’s eye comes back without any
new intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy’s eye comes back and meets Mr.
Smallweed’s eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring,
like some wound-up instrument running down, “How de do, sir—
how de—how—” And then having run down, he lapses into grin-
ning silence, as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing
in the darkness opposite with his hands behind him.
“Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor,” says Grandfather
Smallweed. “I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note,
but he is so good!”
Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes
a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and were
rather amused by the novelty.
“A good deal of property here, sir, I should say,” Mr. Guppy

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observes to Mr. Smallweed.

“Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish!
Me and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make
out an inventory of what’s worth anything to sell. But we haven’t
come to much as yet; we—haven’t—come—to—hah!”
Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle’s eye, at-
tended by Mr. Guppy’s eye, has again gone round the room and
come back.
“Well, sir,” says Mr. Weevle. “We won’t intrude any longer if you’ll
allow us to go upstairs.”
“Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You’re at home. Make yourself
so, pray!”
As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very
dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that
memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great dis-
inclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from it
first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the few
movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a whisper.
“Look here,” says Tony, recoiling. “Here’s that horrible cat com-
ing in!”
Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. “Small told me of her. She went
leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and
got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight,
and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever
see such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don’t she? Almost
looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!”
Lady Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr. Tulkinghorn
stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and swearing wrath-
fully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam the house-tops
again and return by the chimney.
“Mr. Guppy,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “could I have a word with you?”
Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. “Sir,” he returns, reddening, “I wish to act with
courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I

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am sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself—I will

truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir,
I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is
spoken in the presence of my friend.”
“Oh, indeed?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
“Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they are
amply sufficient for myself.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as
the hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. “The matter is not
of that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditions, Mr. Guppy.” He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as
dull and rusty as his pantaloons. “You are to be congratulated, Mr.
Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir.”
“Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don’t complain.”
“Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and ac-
cess to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in London
who would give their ears to be you.”
Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still
reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of himself,
replies, “Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is right by Kenge and
Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no consequence to them nor
to any member of the profession, not excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the
Fields. I am not under any obligation to explain myself further; and with
all respect for you, sir, and without offence—I repeat, without offence—”
“Oh, certainly!”
“—I don’t intend to do it.”
“Quite so,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. “Very good; I
see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable
great, sir?”
He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft
impeachment.
“A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient,” observes Mr.
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back
to the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses
to his eyes. “Who is this? ‘Lady Dedlock.’ Ha! A very good likeness
in its way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentle-
men; good day!”

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 Dickens

When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, nerves

himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy
Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.
“Tony,” he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, “let us be
quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this place. It
were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that between myself
and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now hold
in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and associa-
tion. The time might have been when I might have revealed it to you.
It never will be more. It is due alike to the oath I have taken, alike to
the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over which I have no
control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion. I charge you as a
friend, by the interest you have ever testified in the fashionable intelli-
gence, and by any little advances with which I may have been able to
accommodate you, so to bury it without a word of inquiry!”
This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic
lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair
and even in his cultivated whiskers.

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CHAPTER XL

National and Domestic

ENGLAND HAS BEEN IN A DREADFUL state for some weeks. Lord Coodle
would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn’t come in, and there be-
ing nobody in Great Britain (to speak of ) except Coodle and Doodle,
there has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostile meeting
between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable,
did not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and Coodle
and Doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that England
must have waited to be governed until young Coodle and young
Doodle, now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up. This
stupendous national calamity, however, was averted by Lord Coodle’s
making the timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said
that he scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas
Doodle, he had merely meant to say that party differences should
never induce him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest
admiration; while it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand,
that Sir Thomas Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked
Lord Coodle to go down to posterity as the mirror of virtue and
honour. Still England has been some weeks in the dismal strait of
having no pilot (as was well observed by Sir Leicester Dedlock) to
weather the storm; and the marvellous part of the matter is that
England has not appeared to care very much about it, but has gone
on eating and drinking and marrying and giving in marriage as the
old world did in the days before the flood. But Coodle knew the
danger, and Doodle knew the danger, and all their
followers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception of the
danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not only condescended to

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come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in with him all his
nephews, all his male cousins, and all his brothers-in-law. So there is
hope for the old ship yet.
Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country,
chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed
state he is available in a good many places simultaneously and can
throw himself upon a considerable portion of the country at one
time. Britannia being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the
form of sovereigns, and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, and
in swearing herself black in the face that she does neither—plainly to
the advancement of her glory and morality—the London season
comes to a sudden end, through all the Doodleites and Coodleites
dispersing to assist Britannia in those religious exercises.
Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees,
though no instructions have yet come down, that the family may
shortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins
and others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work.
And hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the forelock, leads
him up and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages,
and through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that
everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread, cur-
tains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen cleared
for action—all things prepared as beseems the Dedlock dignity.
This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the prepara-
tions are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so
many appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the
pictured forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a Dedlock
in possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see
this gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it now; so think, as I think, of
the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone;
so find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it could be without
them; so pass from my world, as I pass from theirs, now closing the
reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die.
Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and
set, at this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house
of gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish,
overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozen

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Dedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as the

shadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner is beguiled
into a wink. A staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in his
chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a
fleck of light and warmth that would have done it good a hundred
years ago. One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very
like her—casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two
centuries—shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. A maid of
honour of the court of Charles the Second, with large round eyes
(and other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water,
and it ripples as it glows.
But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, and
shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down like
age and death. And now, upon my Lady’s picture over the great chim-
ney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it pale,
and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or hood, watch-
ing an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darker rises shadow
on the wall—now a red gloom on the ceiling—now the fire is out.
All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved
solemnly away and changed—not the first nor the last of beautiful
things that look so near and will so change—into a distant phantom.
Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the
garden are heavv in the air. Now the woods settle into great masses as
if they were each one profound tree. And now the moon rises to
separate them, and to glimmer here and there in horizontal lines
behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light
among high cathedral arches fantastically broken.
Now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation
more than ever, is like a body without life. Now it is even awful,
stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in the
solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. Now is the time for
shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step a
pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon
the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy
staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armour
has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy
movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully

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 Dickens

suggestive of heads inside. But of all the shadows in Chesney

Wold, the shadow in the long drawing-room upon my Lady’s pic-
ture is the first to come, the last to be disturbed. At this hour and by
this light it changes into threatening hands raised up and menacing
the handsome face with every breath that stirs.
“She is not well, ma’am,” says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell’s
audience-chamber.
“My Lady not well! What’s the matter?”
“Why, my Lady has been but poorly, ma’am, since she was last
here—I don’t mean with the family, ma’am, but when she was here
as a bird of passage like. My Lady has not been out much for her and
has kept her room a good deal.”
“Chesney Wold, Thomas,” rejoins the housekeeper with proud
complacency, “will set my Lady up! There is no finer air and no
healthier soil in the world!”
Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, prob-
ably hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the
nape of his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them further
and retires to the servants’ hall to regale on cold meat-pie and ale.
This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next
evening, down come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largest
retinue, and down come the cousins and others from all the points
of the compass. Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward
rush mysterious men with no names, who fly about all those par-
ticular parts of the country on which Doodle is at present throwing
himself in an auriferous and malty shower, but who are merely per-
sons of a restless disposition and never do anything anywhere.
On these national occasions Sir Leicester finds the cousins useful.
A better man than the Honourable Bob Stables to meet the Hunt at
dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen than
the other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here
and there, and show themselves on the side of England, it would be
hard to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the true descent;
and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her
French conundrums so old as to have become in the cycles of time
almost new again, the honour of taking the fair Dedlock in to din-
ner, or even the privilege of her hand in the dance. On these national

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occasions dancing may be a patriotic service, and Volumnia is con-

stantly seen hopping about for the good of an ungrateful and
unpensioning country.
My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests,
and being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But at all
the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other melan-
choly pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir Leicester, he
conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be wanting, in any
direction, by any one who has the good fortune to be received under
that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he moves among the
company, a magnificent refrigerator.
Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf,
away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and hunt-
ing-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for the
boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicester holds
forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no occupation in
life present the appearance of being rather busy. Daily Volumnia has
a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on the state of the nation,
from which Sir Leicester is disposed to conclude that Volumnia is a
more reflecting woman than he had thought her.
“How are we getting on?” says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands.
“Are we safe?”
The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will
throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester has
just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright par-
ticular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.
“Volumnia,” replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, “we
are doing tolerably.”
“Only tolerably!”
Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his own
particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat near it
and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who should
say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, it must not
be understood as a common expression, “Volumnia, we are doing
tolerably.”
“At least there is no opposition to you,” Volumnia asserts with
confidence.

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 Dickens

“No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many
respects, I grieve to say, but—”
“It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!”
Volumnia’s finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir Leices-
ter, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to himself, “A
sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally precipitate.”
In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock’s
observation was superfluous, Sir Leicester on these occasions
always delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome
wholesale order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats that
belong to him he treats as retail orders of less importance, merely
sending down the men and signifying to the tradespeople, “You will
have the goodness to make these materials into two members of
Parliament and to send them home when done.”
“I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have
shown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has
been of a most determined and most implacable description.”
“W-r-retches!” says Volumnia.
“Even,” proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacent
cousins on sofas and ottomans, “even in many—in fact, in most—of
those places in which the government has carried it against a fac-
tion—”
(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction with
the Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same
position towards the Coodleites.)
“—Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to
be constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed with-
out being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds,” says Sir Leices-
ter, eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling indigna-
tion, “hundreds of thousands of pounds!”
If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too inno-
cent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well with
a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge and pearl
necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, “What for?”
“Volumnia,” remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.
“Volumnia!”
“No, no, I don’t mean what for,” cries Volumnia with her favourite
little scream. “How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!”
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“I am glad,” returns Sir Leicester, “that you do mean what a pity.”

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people
ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.
“I am glad, Volumnia,” repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of these
mollifying sentiments, “that you do mean what a pity. It is disgrace-
ful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently and without
intending so unreasonable a question, asked me ‘what for?’ let me
reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to your good sense,
Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere.”
Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect
towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary ex-
penses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be unpleasantly con-
nected with the word bribery, and because some graceless jokers have con-
sequently suggested the omission from the Church service of the ordinary
supplication in behalf of the High Court of Parliament and have recom-
mended instead that the prayers of the congregation be requested for six
hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.
“I suppose,” observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to re-
cover her spirits after her late castigation, “I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn
has been worked to death.”
“I don’t know,” says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, “why Mr.
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don’t know what Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s engagements may be. He is not a candidate.”
Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Leicester
could desire to know by whom, and what for. Volumnia, abashed
again, suggests, by somebody—to advise and make arrangements. Sir
Leicester is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been in
need of his assistance.
Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon its
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the
park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer’s name was mentioned.
A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility
now observes from his couch that man told him ya’as’dy that
Tulkinghorn had gone down t’ that iron place t’ give legal ‘pinion
‘bout something, and that contest being over t’ day, ’twould be highly
jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should ‘pear with news that Coodle man
was floored.

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Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, hereupon,

that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Lady turns
her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before.
Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is so
original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing
all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded that
he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge, and wears
short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with candlesticks and
trowels. These lively remarks the fair Dedlock delivers in her youth-
ful manner, while making a purse.
“He has not been here once,” she adds, “since I came. I really had
some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. I
had almost made up my mind that he was dead.”
It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker
gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady’s face, as if she
thought, “I would he were!”
“Mr. Tulkinghorn,” says Sir Leicester, “is always welcome here and
always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and deserv-
edly respected.”
The debilitated cousin supposes he is “‘normously rich fler.”
“He has a stake in the country,” says Sir Leicester, “I have no doubt.
He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on a
footing of equality with the highest society.”
Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.
“Good gracious, what’s that?” cries Volumnia with her little
withered scream.
“A rat,” says my Lady. “And they have shot him.”
Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and
candles.
“No, no,” says Sir Leicester, “I think not. My Lady, do you object
to the twilight?”
On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.
“Volumnia?”
Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the dark.
“Then take them away,” says Sir Leicester. “Tulkinghorn, I beg
your pardon. How do you do?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his

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passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester’s hand, and subsides

into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate,
on the opposite side of the Baronet’s little newspaper-table. Sir Le-
icester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very well, will take
cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would
rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about
her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes
a pinch of snuff.
“Now,” says Sir Leicester. “How has that contest gone?”
“Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have brought
in both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three to one.”
It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s policy and mastery to have no
political opinions; indeed, no opinions. Therefore he says “you” are
beaten, and not “we.”
Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of such a
thing. ‘The debilitated cousin holds that it’s sort of thing that’s sure
tapn slongs votes—giv’n—Mob.
“It’s the place, you know,” Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the
fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, “where they wanted
to put up Mrs. Rouncewell’s son.”
“A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he
had the becoming taste and perception,” observes Sir Leicester, “to
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the sentiments
expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for some half-hour
in this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his decision which
I am glad to acknowledge.”
“Ha!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn. “It did not prevent him from being
very active in this election, though.”
Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. “Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very
active in this election?”
“Uncommonly active.”
“Against—”
“Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In the
business part of the proceedings he carried all before him.”
It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him,

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that Sir Leicester is staring majestically.

“And he was much assisted,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up,
“by his son.”
“By his son, sir?” repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.
“By his son.”
“The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady’s
service?”
“That son. He has but one.”
“Then upon my honour,” says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, “then upon
my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, the
floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have—a—oblit-
erated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which
things are held together!”
General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is really
high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do
something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks—country’s going—
Dayvle—steeple-chase pace.
“I beg,” says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, “that we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superflu-
ous. My Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman—”
“I have no intention,” observes my Lady from her window in a
low but decided tone, “of parting with her.”
“That was not my meaning,” returns Sir Leicester. “I am glad to
hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your
patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these
dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be done
in such association to her duties and principles, and you might pre-
serve her for a better fate. You might point out to her that she prob-
ably would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom
she would not be—” Sir Leicester adds, after a moment’s consider-
ation, “dragged from the altars of her forefathers.”
These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference
when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head in reply.
The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little stream of cold pale
light, in which her head is seen.
“It is worthy of remark,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “however, that

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these people are, in their way, very proud.”

“Proud?” Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.
“I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl—yes, lover and all—instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances.”
“Well!” says Sir Leicester tremulously. “Well! You should know,
Mr. Tulkinghorn. You have been among them.”
“Really, Sir Leicester,” returns the lawyer, “I state the fact.
Why, I could tell you a story—with Lady Dedlock’s permission.”
Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, he
is going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?
“No. Real flesh and blood.” Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant
and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual mo-
notony, “Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester, these
particulars have only lately become known to me. They are very brief.
They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present.
Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?”
By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking to-
wards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can be
seen, perfecfly still.
“A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a great lady,
not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your condi-
tion, Sir Leicester.”
Sir Leicester condescendingly says, “Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,”
implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral
dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.
“The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been en-
gaged to marry a young rake—he was a captain in the army—noth-
ing connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry
him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father.”
By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the moon-
light. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile, per-

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fectly still.
“The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but
a train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows
how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement,
you may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the husband’s
grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr. Rouncewell’s towns-
man heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be pa-
tronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trod-
den underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride, that he indig-
nantly took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. He had no
sense of the honour done him and his daughter by the lady’s conde-
scension; not the least. He resented the girl’s position, as if the lady
had been the commonest of commoners. That is the story. I hope
Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature.”
There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting
with Volumnia’s. That fair young creature cannot believe there ever
was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the threshold. The
majority incline to the debilitated cousin’s sentiment, which is in few
words—”no business—Rouncewell’s fernal townsman.” Sir Leices-
ter generally refers back in his mind to Wat Tyler and arranges a se-
quence of events on a plan of his own.
There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept
at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and this
is the first night in many on which the family have been alone. It is past
ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to ring for candles. Then
the stream of moonlight has swelled into a lake, and then Lady Dedlock
for the first time moves, and rises, and comes forward to a table for a
glass of water. Winking cousins, bat-like in the candle glare, crowd
round to give it; Volumnia (always ready for something better if pro-
curable) takes another, a very mild sip of which contents her; Lady
Dedlock, graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passes
away slowly down the long perspective by the side of that nymph, not
at all improving her as a question of contrast.

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CHAPTER XLI

In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Room

MR. TULKINGHORN ARRIVES in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on
his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and
were, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and
strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as
great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment
or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a
rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of
his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back
walks noiselessly up and down.
There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his reading-
glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to it, and it
would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or so upon
these claims on his attention before going to bed. But he happens not
to be in a business mind. After a glance at the documents awaiting his
notice—with his head bent low over the table, the old man’s sight for
print or writing being defective at night—he opens the French win-
dow and steps out upon the leads. There he again walks slowly up and
down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool may have any
need to subside, from the story he has related downstairs.
The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn
would walk on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky
to read their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though
their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he be
seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the

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leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented below. If

he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other characters
nearer to his hand.
As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in
passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling of
his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is
opposite the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door, too,
but the night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs.
These eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from
the corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed
into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long
year as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.
He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the
doors behind her. There is a wild disturbance—is it fear or anger?—
in her eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she looked down-
stairs two hours ago.
Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be as
pale, both as intent.
“Lady Dedlock?”
She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like two
pictures.
“Why have you told my story to so many persons?”
“Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew it.”
“How long have you known it?”
“I have suspected it a long while—fully known it a little while.”
“Months?”
“Days.”
He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood before
her at any time since her marriage. The same formal politeness, the same
composed deference that might as well be defiance; the whole man the
same dark, cold object, at the same distance, which nothing has ever
diminished.
“Is this true concerning the poor girl?”
He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite

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understanding the question.

“You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my
story also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and
cried in the streets?”
So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What power
this woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn’s
thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey
eyebrows a hair’s breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze.
“No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of
Sir Leicester’s unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand.
But it would be a real case if they knew—what we know.”
“Then they do not know it yet?”
“No.”
“Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?”
“Really, Lady Dedlock,” Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, “I cannot give a
satisfactory opinion on that point.”
And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he watches
the struggle in her breast, “The power and force of this woman are
astonishing!”
“Sir,” she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the
energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, “I will make it plainer.
I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it, and felt its
truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr. Rouncewell here. I
knew very well that if he could have had the power of seeing me as I
was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by having for a mo-
ment been, although most innocently, the subject of my great and
distinguished patronage. But I have an interest in her, or I should
rather say—no longer belonging to this place—I had, and if you can
find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as to
remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug
of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.
“You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too.
Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim that I can
release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my husband in obtaining
his release by certifying to the exactness of your discovery? I will write
anything, here and now, that you will dictate. I am ready to do it.”

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And she would do it, thinks the lawver, watchful of the firm hand
with which she takes the pen!
“I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself.”
“I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare
myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you
have done. Do what remains now.”
“Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to say
a few words when you have finished.”
Their need for watching one another should be over now, but
they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the
opened window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at
rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow
one! Where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined
to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn
existence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curious
questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under
the watching stars upon a summer night.
“Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine,” Lady Dedlock
presently proceeds, “I say not a word. If I were not dumb, you would
be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears.”
He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with
her disdainful hand.
“Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My
jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found
there. So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some ready money I
had with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my
own dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be hence-
forward lost. Make this known. I leave no other charge with you.”
“Excuse me, Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved.
“I am not sure that I understand you. You want—”
“To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this
hour.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without mov-
ing hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-
frill, shakes his head.
“What? Not go as I have said?”
“No, Lady Dedlock,” he very calmly replies.

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“Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have
you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is,
and who it is?”
“No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means.”
Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it
in her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or
foot or raising his voice, “Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop
and hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the alarm-
bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before every
guest and servant, every man and woman, in it.”
He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand
confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else, but when
so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn’s sees indecision for a mo-
ment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.
He promptly says again, “Have the goodness to hear me, Lady
Dedlock,” and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She
hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down.
“The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Lady
Dedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for
them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so well
known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have
appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery.”
“Sir,” she returns without looking up from the ground on which
her eyes are now fixed, “I had better have gone. It would have been
far better not to have detained me. I have no more to say.”
“Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear.”
“I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can’t breathe where I am.”
His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant’s
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and
dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the terrace
below. But a moment’s observation of her figure as she stands in the
window without any support, looking out at the stars—not up-
gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens, reassures
him. By facing round as she has moved, he stands a little behind her.
“Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision
satisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clear what to
do or how to act next. I must request you, in the meantime, to keep

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your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that I keep
it too.”
He pauses, but she makes no reply.
“Pardon me, Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject. You are
honouring me with your attention?”
“I am.”
“‘Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of
your strength of character. I ought not to have asked the question,
but I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I
go on. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester.”
“‘Then why,” she asks in a low voice and without removing her
gloomy look from those distant stars, “do you detain me in his house?”
“Because he is the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no occa-
sion to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his reli-
ance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky
would not amaze him more than your fall from your high position
as his wife.”
She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as
ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.
“I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this
case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of
my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as
to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester’s trust and
confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Not that
he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that noth-
ing can prepare him for the blow.”
“Not my flight?” she returned. “Think of it again.”
“Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a
hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be impossible
to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be thought of.”
There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no
remonstrance.
“When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he and
the family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir Leices-
ter and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his patri-
mony”—Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here—”are, I need not say to
you, Lady Dedlock, inseparable.”

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“Go on!”
“Therefore,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-
trot style, “I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if it can
be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his wits or laid
upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow
morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for?
What could have caused it? What could have divided you? Lady
Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on di-
rectly, and you are to remember that it would not affect you merely
(whom I cannot at all consider in this business) but
your husband, Lady Dedlock, your husband.”
He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or
animated.
“There is another point of view,” he continues, “in which the case
presents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to infatuation.
He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even knowing
what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but it might be so. If
so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better for common sense,
better for him, better for me. I must take all this into account, and it
combines to render a decision very difficult.”
She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They are
beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her.
“My experience teaches me,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by
this time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business
consideration of the matter like a machine. “My experience teaches
me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would do far
better to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three fourths of
their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester married, and so I
always have thought since. No more about that. I must now be guided
by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must beg you to keep your
own counsel, and I will keep mine.”
“I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your
pleasure, day by day?” she asks, still looking at the distant sky.
“Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock.”
“It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the stake?”
“I am sure that what I recommend is necessary.”
“I am to remain on this gaudy platforna on which my miserable

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deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when

you give the signal?” she said slowly.
“Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step without
forewarning you.”
She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from
memory or calling them over in her sleep.
“We are to meet as usual?”
“Precisely as usual, if you please.”
“And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?”
“As you have done so many years. I should not have made that
reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that
your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and
no better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have never
wholly trusted each other.”
She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time
before asking, “Is there anything more to be sald to-night?”
“Why,” Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs
his hands, “I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my
arrangements, Lady Dedlock.”
“You may be assured of it.”
“Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a busi-
ness precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any
communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interview I
have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester’s feel-
ings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been happy
to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if the
case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not.”
“I can attest your fidelity, sir.”
Both before and after saving it she remains absorbed, but at length
moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence,
towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as
he would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years
ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not an
ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into
the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very
slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as he reflects when he
is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint

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upon herself.
He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her
own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her
hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. He
would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and
down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by
the faithful step upon the Ghost’s Walk. But he shuts out the now
chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep.
And truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the turret-
chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger and the
spade were both commissioned and would soon be digging.
The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repen-
tant country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cous-
ins entering on various public employments, principally receipt of
salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty thou-
sand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false teeth
like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of Bath and
the terror of every other commuuity. Also into rooms high in the
roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where hum-
bler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers’ lodges, and in holy matri-
mony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun, drawing every-
thing up with it—the Wills and Sallys, the latent vapour in the earth,
the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and creeping
things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold emerald
velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great kitchen fire
wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome air. Lastly, up
comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn’s unconscious head cheerfully
proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are in their happy
home and that there is hospitality at the place in Lincolnshire.

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CHAPTER XLII

In Mr. Tulkinghorn’s Chambers

FROM THE VERDANT UNDULATIONS and the spreading oaks of the
Dedlock property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat
and dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the
two places is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney
Wold as if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his cham-
bers as if he had never been out of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He neither
changes his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. He
melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late
twilight, he melts into his own square.
Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant
fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into wigs,
and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded, dwelling
among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without experi-
ence of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest in holes
and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its broader and better
range, comes sauntering home. In the oven made by the hot pavements
and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than usual; and he has in his
thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a century old.
The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn’s side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble myster-
ies arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the door-steps and is
gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on the top step, a
bowing and propitiatory little man.
“Is that Snagsby?”
“Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up,
sir, and going home.”

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“Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?”

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head
in his deference towards his best customer, “I was wishful to say a
word to you, sir.”
“Can you say it here?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Say it then.” The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron
railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting
the court-yard.
“It is relating,” says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, “it is
relating—not to put too fine a point upon it—to the foreigner, sir!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. “What foreigner?”
“The foreign female, sir. French, if I don’t mistake? I am not ac-
quainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her
manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly for-
eign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the
honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.”
“Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.”
“Indeed, sir?” Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission be-
hind his hat. “I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreign-
ers in general, but I have no doubt it would be that.” Mr. Snagsby
appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of
repeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.
“And what can you have to say, Snagsby,” demands Mr.
Tulkinghorn, “about her?”
“Well, sir,” returns the stationer, shading his communication with
his hat, “it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is very
great—at least, it’s as great as can be expected, I’m sure—but my
little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a point
upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a foreign
female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hover-
ing—I should be the last to make use of a strong expression if I could
avoid it, but hovering, sir—in the court—you know it is—now ain’t
it? I only put it to yourself, sir.
Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in
a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.
“Why, what do you mean?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

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“Just so, sir,” returns Mr. Snagsby; “I was sure you would feel it
yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when
coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see,
the foreign female—which you mentioned her name just now, with
quite a native sound I am sure—caught up the word Snagsby that
night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direc-
tion and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is
timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner’s
looks—which are fierce—and at a grinding manner that she has of
speaking—which is calculated to alarm a weak mind—gave way to
it, instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchen
stairs out of one into another, such fits as I do sometimes think are
never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours. Conse-
quently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my little
woman, and only me to answer the shop. When she did say that Mr.
Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer (which I
had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a clerk), she
would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at my place until
she was let in here. Since then she has been, as I began by saying,
hovering, hovering, sir”—Mr. Snagsby repeats the word with pa-
thetic emphasis—”in the court. The effects of which movement it is
impossible to calculate. I shouldn’t wonder if it might have already
given rise to the painfullest mistakes even in the neighbours’ minds,
not mentioning (if such a thing was possible) my little woman.
Whereas, goodness knows,” says Mr. Snagsby, shaking his head, “I
never had an idea of a foreign female, except as being formerly con-
nected with a bunch of brooms and a baby, or at the present time
with a tambourine and earrings.
I never had, I do assure you, sir!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and in-
quires when the stationer has finished, “And that’s all, is it, Snagsby?”
“Why yes, sir, that’s all,” says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a cough
that plainly adds, “and it’s enough too—for me.”
“I don’t know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean,
unless she is mad,” says the lawyer.
“Even if she was, you know, sir,” Mr. Snagsby pleads, “it wouldn’t
be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a

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foreign dagger planted in the family.”

“No,” says the other. “Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am sorry
you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her here.”
Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing,
takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs,
saying to himself, “These women were created to give trouble the
whole earth over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here’s
the maid now! But I will be short with this jade at least!”
So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky
rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see
much of the Allegory over-head there, but that importunate Roman,
who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old
work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention,
Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer
in which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is
another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to
descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door
with a candle in his hand when a knock comes.
“Who’s this? Aye, aye, mistress, it’s you, is it? You appear at a good
time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you want?”
He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk’s hall and
taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of wel-
come to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with her
lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly
closes the door before replying.
“I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir.”
“Have you!”
“I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he
is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for you.”
“Quite right, and quite true.”
“Not true. Lies!”
At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle
Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject
involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s case at present,
though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut up (but
still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and shak-
ing her head.

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“Now, mistress,” says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the
chimney-piece. “If you have anything to say, say it, say it.”
“Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby.”
“Mean and shabby, eh?” returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with
the key.
“Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have attrapped
me—catched me—to give you information; you have asked me to show
you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night, you have
prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?” Mademoi-
selle Hortense makes another spring.
“You are a vixen, a vixen!” Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as
he looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, “Well, wench, well. I
paid you.”
“You paid me!” she repeats with fierce disdain. “Two sovereign! I
have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them
from me!” Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as
she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that
they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners
and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.
“Now!” says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again.
“You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains
herself with a sarcastic laugh.
“You must be rich, my fair friend,” he composedly observes, “to
throw money about in that way!”
“I am rich,” she returns. “I am very rich in hate. I hate my
Lady, of all my heart. You know that.”
“Know it? How should I know it?”
“Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to
give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I
was en-r-r-r-raged!” It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll
the letter “r” sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she as-
sists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and setting all
her teeth.
“Oh! I knew that, did I?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the
wards of the key.
“Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me
because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her.”
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Mademoiselle folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over
one of her shoulders.
“Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?”
“I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If
you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her,
to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well,
and with a good will. It is what you do. Do I not know that?”
“You appear to know a good deal,” Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.
“Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child,
that I come here in that dress to rec-cive that boy only to decide a
little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!” In this reply, down to the
word “wager” inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and
tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant
scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly
shut and staringly wide open.
“Now, let us see,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the
key and looking imperturbably at her, “how this matter stands.”
“Ah! Let us see,” mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight
nods of her head.
“You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which
you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again.”
“And again,” says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. “And
yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!”
“And not only here, but you will go to Mr, Snagsby’s too, perhaps? That
visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?”
“And again,” repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination.
“And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for
ever!”
“Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you
to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will
find it behind the clerk’s partition in the corner yonder.”
She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground
with folded arms.
“You will not, eh?”
“No, I will not!”
“So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this
is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of prisons are

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larger. In this city there are houses of correction (where the treadmills
are, for women), the gates of which are very strong and heavy, and no
doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would
find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for
any length of time. What do you think?”
“I think,” mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,
obliging voice, “that you are a miserable wretch.”
“Probably,” returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose.
“But I don’t ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of
the prison.”
“Nothing. What does it matter to me?”
“Why, it matters this much, mistress,” says the lawyer, deliberately
putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; “the law is so
despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English
citizens from being troubled, even by a lady’s visits against his desire.
And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the
troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard discipline.
Turns the key upon her, mistress.” Illustrating with the cellar-key.
“Truly?” returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. “That is
droll! But—my faith! —still what does it matter to me?”
“My fair friend,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “make another visit here,
or at Mr. Snagsby’s, and you shall learn.”
“In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle’s state of agree-
able jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion
thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it.
“In a word, mistress,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “I am sorry to be
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here—or there—
again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is great, but
they carry troublesome people through the streets in an ignominious
manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench.”
“I will prove you,” whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,
“I will try if you dare to do it!”
“And if,” pursues the lawyer without minding her, “I place you in
that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time
before you find yourself at liberty again.”

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“I will prove you,” repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

“And now,” proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, “you
had better go. Think twice before you come here again.”
“Think you,” she answers, “twice two hundred times!”
“You were dismissed by your lady, you know,” Mr. Tulkinghorn
observes, following her out upon the staircase, “as the most impla-
cable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what
I threaten, I will do, mistress.”
She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When
she is gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-cov-
ered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents,
now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight
of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XLIII

Esther’s Narrative
IT MATTERS LITTLE NOW how much I thought of my living mother who
had told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to ap-
proach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of the
peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my fears of
increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a living creature was an
unforeseen danger in her way, I could not always conquer that terror of
myself which had seized me when I first knew the secret. At no time did
I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the
conversation anywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it
sometimes naturally did, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, re-
peated something that I knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious
now that I often did these things when there can have been no danger of
her being spoken of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearing any-
thing that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.
It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother’s
voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to
do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so
new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention of
my mother’s name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house in
town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the theatre
when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide
asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or confi-
dence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has been so
blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story of goodness
and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and go on.
When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many

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conversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. My

dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so
much wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could not
bear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it, and
never coupled his name with a word of reproof. “Rick is mistaken, my
dear,” he would say to her. “Well, well! We have all been mistaken over
and over again. We must trust to you and time to set him right.”
We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust
to time until he had often tried to open Richard’s eyes. That he had
written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and
persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted Richard
was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends
when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the dark, he
could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those clouds in
which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and misun-
derstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the suit
out and come through it to his right mind. This was his unvarying
reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such possession of his whole
nature that it was impossible to place any consideration before him
which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a new argu-
ment in favour of his doing what he did. “So that it is even more
mischievous,” said my guardian once to me, “to remonstrate with
the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone.”
I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of
Mr. Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.
“Adviser!” returned my guardian, laughing, “My dear, who would
advise with Skimpole?”
“Encourager would perhaps have been a better word,” said I.
“Encourager!” returned my guardian again. “Who could be en-
couraged by Skimpole?”
“Not Richard?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer
creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising or
encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or any-
thing, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as Skimpole.”
“Pray, cousin John,” said Ada, who had just joined us and now
looked over my shoulder, “what made him such a child?”

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“What made him such a child?” inquired my guardian, rubbing

his head, a little at a loss.
“Yes, cousin John.”
“Why,” he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more,
“he is all sentiment, and—and susceptibility, and—and sensibility,
and—and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,
somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his
youth attached too much importance to them and too little to any
training that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he be-
came what he is. Hey?” said my guardian, stopping short and look-
ing at us hopefully. “What do you think, you two?”
Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an
expense to Richard.
“So it is, so it is,” returned my guardian hurriedly. “That must not
be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never do.”
And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.
“Did he?” said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his
face. “But there you have the man. There you have the man! There is
nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value of
money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.
Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and
thinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I’ll be bound, my dear?”
“Oh, yes!” said I.
“Exactly!” cried my guardian, quite triumphant. “There you have
the man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm
in it, he wouldn’t tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere simplicity. But
you shall see him in his own home, and then you’ll understand him
better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and caution him on
these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an infant!”
In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day
and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole’s door.
He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where
there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking
about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better
tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend
Somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude

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for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don’t

know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a
state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of
the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker
was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge
from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps
were the only signs of its being inhabited.
A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the
rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry
answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stop-
ping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed
Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the
receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to
pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then
applied herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good
action either, and said would we go upstairs?
We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture than
the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without further ceremony entered a
room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough and not at all clean,
but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a large footstool,
a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a
piano, books, drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches
and pictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows was
papered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothouse nectar-
ines on the table, and there was another of grapes, and another of sponge-
cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. Mr. Skimpole himself re-
clined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee
from an old china cup—it was then about mid-day—and looking at a
collection of wallflowers in the balcony.
He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose
and received us in his usual airy manner.
“Here I am, you see!” he said when we were seated, not without
some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken.
“Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef
and mutton for breakfast; I don’t. Give me my peach, my cup of
coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don’t want them for them-
selves, but they remind me of the sun. There’s nothing solar about

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legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!”

“This is our friend’s consulting-room (or would be, if he ever pre-
scribed), his sanctum, his studio,” said my guardian to us.
“Yes,” said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, “this is the
bird’s cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his
feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!”
He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, “He sings!
Not an ambitious note, but still he sings.”
“These are very fine,” said my guardian. “A present?”
“No,” he answered. “No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His
man wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether
he should wait for the money. ‘Really, my friend,’ I said, ‘I think
not—if your time is of any value to you.’ I suppose it was, for he
went away.”
My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, “Is
it possible to be worldly with this baby?”
“This is a day,” said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in a
tumbler, “that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint
Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I have
a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment
daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all.
They’ll be enchanted.”
He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed
and asked him to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him
first. “My dear Jarndyce,” he cheerfully replied, going back to his
sofa, “as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We
never know what o’clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get
on in life, you’ll tell me? Certainly. But we don’t get on in life. We
don’t pretend to do it.”
My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, “You hear him?”
“Now, Harold,” he began, “the word I have to say relates to Rick.”
“The dearest friend I have!” returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. “I
suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms
with you. But he is, I can’t help it; he is full of youthful poetry, and
I love him. If you don’t like it, I can’t help it. I love him.”
The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really
had a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not,

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for the moment, Ada too.

“You are welcome to love him as much as you like,” returned Mr.
Jarndyce, “but we must save his pocket, Harold.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Skimpole. “His pocket? Now you are coming to
what I don’t understand.” Taking a little more claret and dipping one
of the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with
an ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.
“If you go with him here or there,” said my guardian plainly, “you
must not let him pay for both.”
“My dear Jarndyce,” returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face irradiated
by the comicality of this idea, “what am I to do? If he takes me any-
where, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I had
any money, I don’t know anything about it. Suppose I say to a man,
how much? Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know
nothing about seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue the
subject with any consideration for the man. I don’t go about asking busy
people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish—which I don’t under-
stand. Why should I go about asking them what seven and sixpence is in
Money—which I don’t understand?”
“Well,” said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless
reply, “if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must
borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that
circumstance), and leave the calculation to him.”
“My dear Jarndyce,” returned Mr. Skimpole, “I will do anything
to give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form—a superstition. Be-
sides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson,
I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only
to make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or
a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a
shower of money.”
“Indeed it is not so, sir,” said Ada. “He is poor.”
“No, really?” returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. “You
surprise me.
“And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed,” said my
guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr. Skimpole’s
dressing-gown, “be you very careful not to encourage him in that
reliance, Harold.”

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“My dear good friend,” returned Mr. Skimpole, “and my dear Miss
Siunmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It’s busi-
ness, and I don’t know business. It is he who encourages me. He
emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects
before me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. I do
admire them—as bright prospects. But I know no more about them,
and I tell him so.”
The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before
us, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his inno-
cence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his own
protection and argued about that curious person, combined with the
delightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian’s
case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me,
when he was present, that he could design, conceal, or influence any-
thing; and yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present,
and the less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do
with any one for whom I cared.
Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.
Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters (his
sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite de-
lighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish charac-
ter. He soon came back, bringing with him the three young ladies and
Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a delicate
high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of disorders.
“This,” said Mr. Skimpole, “is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa—
plays and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment
daughter, Laura—plays a little but don’t sing. This is my Comedy
daughter, Kitty—sings a little but don’t play. We all draw a little and
compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money.”
Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad
to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that
she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she took
every opportunity of throwing in another.
“It is pleasant,” said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from
one to the other of us, “and it is whimsically interesting to trace
peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I am
the youngest.”

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The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused

by this droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.
“My dears, it is true,” said Mr. Skimpole, “is it not? So it is, and so
it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, ‘it is our nature to.’
Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity
and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very
strange in Miss Summerson’s ears, I dare say, that we know nothing
about chops in this house. But we don’t, not the least. We can’t cook
anything whatever. A needle and thread we don’t know how to use.
We admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want,
but we don’t quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with
us? Live and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wis-
dom, and let us live upon you!”
He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean
what he said.
“We have sympathy, my roses,” said Mr. Skimpole, “sympathy for
everything. Have we not?”
“Oh, yes, papa!” cried the three daughters.
“In fact, that is our family department,” said Mr. Skimpole, “in this
hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being inter-
ested, and we do look on, and we are interested. What more can we
do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now I dare
say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in
point of political economy, but it was very agreeable. We had our little
festivities on those occasions and exchanged social ideas. She brought
her young husband home one day, and they and their young fledglings
have their nest upstairs. I dare say at some time or other Sentiment and
Comedy will bring their husbands home and have their nests upstairs
too. So we get on, we don’t know how, but somehow.”
She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children,
and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that
the three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as
little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father’s play-
things in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted, I ob-
served, in their respective styles of wearing their hair, the Beauty
daughter being in the classic manner, the Sentiment daughter luxuri-
ant and flowing, and the Comedy daughter in the arch style, with a

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good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about
the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to correspond, though in a
most untidy and negligent way.
Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them wonder-
fully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who had been
rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in the wind)
talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing
the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously volunteered to go
home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose.
“My roses,” he said when he came back, “take care of mama. She is
poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I
shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been tried,
you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.”
“That bad man!” said the Comedy daughter.
“At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his
wallflowers, looking at the blue sky,” Laura complained.
“And when the smell of hay was in the air!” said Arethusa.
“It showed a want of poetry in the man,” Mr. Skimpole assented,
but with perfect good humour. “It was coarse. There was an absence
of the finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great
offence,” he explained to us, “at an honest man—”
“Not honest, papa. Impossible!” they all three protested.
“At a rough kind of fellow—a sort of human hedgehog rolled
up,” said Mr. Skimpole, “who is a baker in this neighbourhood and
from whom we borrowed a couple of armchairs. We wanted a couple
of arm-chairs, and we hadn’t got them, and therefore of course we
looked to a man who had got them, to lend them. Well! This mo-
rose person lent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn
out, he wanted them back. He had them back. He was contented,
you will say. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasoned
with him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, ‘Can you, at your
time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-
chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it is an object to
contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider from a point of
sight? Don’t you know that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat
upon?’ He was unreasonable and unpersuadable and used intemper-
ate language. Being as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed

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another appeal to him. I said, ‘Now, my good man, however our

business capacities may vary, we are all children of one great mother,
Nature. On this blooming summer morning here you see me’ (I was
on the sofa) ‘with flowers before me, fruit upon the table, the cloud-
less sky above me, the air full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I
entreat you, by our common brotherhood, not to interpose between
me and a subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker!’
But he did,” said Mr. Skimpole, raising his laughing eyes in playful
astonishinent; “he did interpose that ridiculous figure, and he does,
and he will again. And therefore I am very glad to get out of his way
and to go home with my friend Jarndyce.”
It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the
daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so
old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He
took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any
other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with us in
perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing through
some open doors, as we went downstairs, that his own apartment
was a palace to the rest of the house.
I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something very
startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what
ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was
in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but listen to
him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Ada yielded to the
same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind, which had threatened
to become fixed in the east when we left Somers Town, veered com-
pletely round before we were a couple of miles from it.
Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters,
Mr. Skimpole had a child’s enjoyment of change and bright weather.
In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-
room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was yet
looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and
drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.
We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the
piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music,
and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined
old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago

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and had got tired of, when a card was brought in and my guardian
read aloud in a surprised voice, “Sir Leicester Dedlock!”
The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with
me and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should have
hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in my giddiness,
to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, or to know
where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardian was
presenting me before I could move to a chair.
“Pray be seated, Sir Leicester.”
“Mr. Jarndyce,” said Sir Leicester in reply as he bowed and seated
himself, “I do myself the honour of calling here—”
“You do me the honour, Sir Leicester.”
“Thank you—of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire to
express my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I
may have against a gentleman who—who is known to you and has
been your host, and to whom therefore I will make no farther refer-
ence, should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort
and charge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a po-
lite and refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold.”
“You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf of those
ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very much.”
“It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for the
reasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion—it
is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done me the
honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you to
believe that you would not have been received by my local establish-
ment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy, which its
members are instructed to show to all ladies and gentlemen who
present themselves at that house. I merely beg to observe, sir, that the
fact is the reverse.”
My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any
verbal answer.
“It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce,” Sir Leicester weightily
proceeded. “I assure you, sir, it has given—me—pain—to learn from
the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was in your
company in that part of the county, and who would appear to pos-
sess a cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterred by some

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such cause from examining the family pictures with that leisure, that
attention, that care, which he might have desired to bestow upon
them and which some of them might possibly have repaid.” Here he
produced a card and read, with much gravity and a
little trouble, through his eye-glass, “Mr. Hirrold—Herald—
Harold—Skampling—Skumpling—I beg your pardon—Skimpole.”
“This is Mr. Harold Skimpole,” said my guardian, evidently surprised.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir Leicester, “I am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole
and to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope,
sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county, you
will be under no similar sense of restraint.”
“You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, I shall
certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another visit to your
beautiful house. The owners of such places as Chesney Wold,” said Mr.
Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air, “are public benefactors. They
are good enough to maintain a number of delightful objects for the
admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to reap all the admira-
tion and pleasure that they yield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors.”
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. “An art-
ist, sir?”
“No,” returned Mr. Skimpole. “A perfectly idle man. A mere
amateur.”
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped he
might have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr.
Skimpole next came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole pro-
fessed himself much flattered and honoured.
“Mr. Skimpole mentioned,” pursued Sir Leicester, addressing him-
self again to my guardian, “mentioned to the house-keeper, who, as he
may have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family—”
(“That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on the
occasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss Clare,”
Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)
“—That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there
was Mr. Jarndyce.” Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name.
“And hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I have
professed my regret. That this should have occurred to any gentle-
man, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known to

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Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion with

her, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady herself ) she entertains a
high respect, does, I assure you, give—me—pain.”
“Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester,” returned my guardian.
“I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your consideration.
Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to apologize for it.”
I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had not
even appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises me to
find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impression on me as
it passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was so confused and
my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his presence so dis-
tressing to me that I thought I understood nothing, through the
rushing in my head and the beating of my heart.
“I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock,” said Sir Leicester, ris-
ing, “and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure of
exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards on the
occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the vicin-
ity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to these la-
dies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Skimpole. Circum-
stances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would afford me any
gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn had favoured my house with
his presence, but those circumstances are confined to that gentleman
himself and do not extend beyond him.”
“You know my old opinion of him,” said Mr. Skimpole, lightly
appealing to us. “An amiable bull who is detenined to make every
colour scarlet!”
Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hear
another word in reference to such an individual and took his leave
with great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with all
possible speed and remained there until I had recovered my self-com-
mand. It had been very much disturbed, but I was thankful to find
when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me for having
been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.
By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come
when I must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my
being brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken
to her house, even of Mr. Skimpole’s, however distantly associ-

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ated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her hus-
band, was so painful that I felt I could no longer guide myself
without his assistance.
When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our
usual talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and
sought my guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that
hour, and as I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage
from his reading-lamp.
“May I come in, guardian?”
“Surely, little woman. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet
time of saying a word to you about myself.”
He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his
kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it
wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before—on
that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could
readily understand.
“What concerns you, my dear Esther,” said he, “concerns us all.
You cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear.”
“I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice and
support. Oh! You don’t know how much need I have to-night.”
He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little
alarmed.
“Or how anxious I have been to speak to you,” said I, “ever since
the visitor was here to-day.”
“The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?”
“Yes.”
He folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of the
profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I did
not know how to prepare him.
“Why, Esther,” said he, breaking into a smile, “our visitor and you
are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of connecting
together!”
“Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago.”
The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before.
He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen to that)
and resumed his seat before me.

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“Guardian,” said I, “do you remensher, when we were overtaken

by the thunder-storm, Lady Dedlock’s speaking to you of her sister?”
“Of course. Of course I do.”
“And reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gone
their several ways?”
“Of course.”
“Why did they separate, guardian?”
His face quite altered as he looked at me. “My child, what
questions are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever did
know, I believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two hand-
some and proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If you
had ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been as resolute
and haughty as she.”
“Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!”
“Seen her?”
He paused a little, biting his lip. “Then, Esther, when you spoke to
me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all but
married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and that
that time had had its influence on his later life—did you know it all,
and know who the lady was?”
“No, guardian,” I returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke
upon me. “Nor do I know yet.”
“Lady Dedlock’s sister.”
“And why,” I could scarcely ask him, “why, guardian, pray tell me
why were they parted?”
“It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. He
afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some
injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel
with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she wrote
him that from the date of that letter she died to him—as in literal
truth she did—and that the resolution was exacted from her by her
knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour,
which were both her nature too. In consideration for those master
points in him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she
made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it. She did
both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from that
hour. Nor did any one.”

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“Oh, guardian, what have I done!” I cried, giving way to my grief;

“what sorrow have I innocently caused!”
“You caused, Esther?”
“Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sister is
my first remembrance.”
“No, no!” he cried, starting.
“Yes, guardian, yes! And her sister is my mother!”
I would have told him all my mother’s letter, but he would not
hear it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so
plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in
my better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with fervent
gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed I had never
loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as I did
that night. And when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at
the door, and when at last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how
could I ever be busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how
in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself,
devoted enough to him, and useful enough to others, to show him
how I blessed and honoured him.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XLIV

The Letter and the Answer

MY GUARDIAN CALLED ME into his room next morning, and then I
told him what had been left untold on the previous night. There was
nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid
another such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feel-
ing and entirely shared it. He charged himself even with restraining
Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. One person whom
he need not name to me, it was not now possible for him to advise
or help. He wished it were, but no such thing could be. If her mis-
trust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-founded,
which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded discovery. He knew some-
thing of him, both by sight and by reputation, and it was certain that
he was a dangerous man. Whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed
upon me with anxious affection and kindness, I was as innocent of as
himself and as unable to influence.
“Nor do I understand,” said he, “that any doubts tend towards
you, my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion.”
“With the lawyer,” I returned. “But two other persons have come
into my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about
Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I
little understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last
interview I expressed perfect confidence.
“Well,” said my guardian. “Then we may dismiss him for the
present. Who is the other?”
I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of
herself she had made to me.
“Ha!” he returned thoughtfully. “That is a more alarming person

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than the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new
service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was
natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed
herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more.”
“Her manner was strange,” said I.
“Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and
showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her
death-bed,” said my guardian. “It would be useless self-distress and
torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very
few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous
meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be noth-
ing better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you
were before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody’s sake.
I, sharing the secret with you—”
“And lightening it, guardian, so much,” said I.
“—will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can
observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I
can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is
better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear
daughter’s sake.”
I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but
thank him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a
moment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his
face again; and all at once, I don’t know how, it flashed upon me as a
new and far-off possibility that I understood it.
“My dear Esther,” said my guardian, “I have long had something
in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you.”
“Indeed?”
“I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I
should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately consid-
ered. Would you object to my writing it?”
“Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for
me to read?”
“Then see, my love,” said he with his cheery smile, “am I at this
moment quite as plain and easy—do I seem as open, as honest and
old-fashioned—as I am at any time?”
I answered in all earnestness, “Quite.” With the strictest truth, for

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his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and
his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.
“Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I
said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?” said he with his
bright clear eyes on mine.
I answered, most assuredly he did not.
“Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess,
Esther?”
“Most thoroughly,” said I with my whole heart.
“My dear girl,” returned my guardian, “give me your hand.”
He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking
down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness
of manner—the old protecting manner which had made that house
my home in a moment—said, “You have wrought changes in me,
little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last
you have done me a world of good since that time.”
“Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!”
“But,” said he, “that is not to be remembered now.”
“It never can be forgotten.”
“Yes, Esther,” said he with a gentle seriousness, “it is to be
forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remem-
ber now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel
quite assured of that, my dear?”
“I can, and I do,” I said.
“That’s much,” he answered. “That’s everything. But I must not
take that at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts
until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change
me as you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never
write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send Charley to
me this night week—’for the letter.’ But if you are not quite certain,
never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. If
you are not quite certain on that one point, never send!”
“Guardian,” said I, “I am already certain, I can no more be changed
in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall send
Charley for the letter.”
He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in
reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole

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week. When the appointed night came, I said to Charley as soon as I

was alone, “Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce’s door, Charley, and say
you have come from me—’for the letter.’” Charley went up the stairs,
and down the stairs, and along the passages—the zig-zag way about
the old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that
night—and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs,
and up the stairs, and brought the letter. “Lay it on the table, Char-
ley,” said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and I sat
looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many things.
I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through
those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her
resolute face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary with Mrs.
Rachael than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look
at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in
all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw
my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was
the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of
welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our ex-
pectant faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I
lived my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and
recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so
unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central
figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.
I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and
in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed
for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read
much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it
down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did.
It asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.
It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was
written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his
face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind protecting
manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places were reversed, as
if all the good deeds had been mine and all the feelings they had
awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and he past the prime of
life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I was a child; on his
writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing all this so well as to

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set it in full before me for mature deliberation. It told me that I

would gain nothing by such a marriage and lose nothing by rejecting
it, for no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held
me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right.
But he had considered this step anew since our late confidence and
had decided on taking it, if it only served to show me through one
poor instance that the whole world would readily unite to falsify the
stern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to know what hap-
piness I could bestow upon him, but of that he said no more, for I
was always to remember that I owed him nothing and that he was
my debtor, and for very much. He had often thought of our future,
and foreseeing that the time must come, and fearing that it might
come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age) would leave us, and
when our present mode of life must be broken up, had become ac-
customed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that I
could ever give him the best right he could have to be my protector,
and if I felt that I could happily and justly become the dear compan-
ion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes
than death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably
while this letter was yet so new to me, but even then I must have
ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in the opposite case,
let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old manner, in the
old name by which I called him. And as to his bright Dame Durden
and little housekeeper, she would ever be the same, he knew.
This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a
justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian
impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his
integrity he stated the full case.
But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he
had had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from
it. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions,
he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery of
my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my disfig-
urement and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in need
of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the last.
But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of
the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I had but

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one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him
poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new
means of thanking him?
Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after
reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect—for
it was strange though I had expected the contents—but as if some-
thing for which there was no name or distinct idea were indefi-
nitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful;
but I cried very much.
By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen,
and I said, “Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!” I am afraid the face
in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my
finger at it, and it stopped.
“That is more like the composed look you comforted me with,
my dear, when you showed me such a change!” said I, beginning to
let down my hair. “When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are
to be as cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let
us begin for once and for all.”
I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little still,
but that was because I had been crying, not because I was crying then.
“And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your best
friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great
deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men.”
I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else,
how should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would
have been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and
blank form that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss
before I laid them down in their basket again.
Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, how often
had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my illness and the
circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I should be busy,
busy, busy—useful, amiable, serviceable, in all honest, unpretending ways.
This was a good time, to be sure, to sit down morbidly and cry! As to its
seeming at all strange to me at first (if that were any excuse for crying,
which it was not) that I was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House,
why should it seem strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I
had not. “Don’t you remember, my plain dear,” I asked myself, looking at

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the glass, “what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars were there about
your marrying—”
Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried
remains of the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now.
They had only been preserved in memory of something wholly past
and gone, but it would be better not to keep them now.
They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room—
our sitting-room, dividing Ada’s chamber from mine. I took a candle
and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in my hand,
I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and
I stole in to kiss her.
It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying;
but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another.
Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for
a moment to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard, though,
indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them
into my own room and burned them at the candle, and they were
dust in an instant.
On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guard-
ian just as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being not the
least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think there was
none) in mine. I was with him several times in the course of the
morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and I thought it
not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did
not say a word.
So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week,
over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, every
day, that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he
never did.
I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I
tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not
write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thought each
night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days, and
he never said a word.
At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one after-
noon going out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and going
down, came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing

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at the drawing-room window looking out.

He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, “Aye, it’s you, little
woman, is it?” and looked out again.
I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had
come down on purpose. “Guardian,” I said, rather hesitating and
trembling, “when would you like to have the answer to the letter
Charley came for?”
“When it’s ready, my dear,” he replied.
“I think it is ready,” said I.
“Is Charley to bring it?” he asked pleasantly.
“No. I have brought it myself, guardian,” I returned.
I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was
this the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made no
difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said nothing
to my precious pet about it.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER XLV

In Trust
ONE MORNING WHEN I had done jingling about with my baskets of
keys, as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I
happened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin
shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling
me only that morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his
ardour in the Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and there-
fore, not to damp my dear girl’s spirits, I said nothing about Mr.
Vholes’s shadow.
Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes and
tripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora’s atten-
dants instead of my maid, saying, “Oh, if you please, miss, would
you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!”
It was one of Charley’s peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld, at
any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw
Charley asking me in her usual form of words to “step and speak” to
Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she
had said it so often that she was out of breath.
I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we
went in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To
which Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did
any credit to my educational powers, replied, “Yes, miss. Him as
come down in the country with Mr. Richard.”
A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I
suppose there could not be. I found them looking at one another
across a table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so

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broad and upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one
giving out what he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the
other keeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner
that I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched.
“You know Mr. Vholes, my dear,” said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanity, I must say.
Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated him-
self again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the gig. Not
having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.
“Mr. Vholes,” said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he
were a bird of ill omen, “has brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick.” Laying a marked emphasis on “most unfortu-
nate” as if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with
Mr. Vholes.
I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, ex-
cept that he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow
face with his black glove.
“And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know,” said my guardian, “what you think, my dear. Would you be
so good as to—as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?”
Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, “I have been say-
ing that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.’s profes-
sional adviser, that Mr. C.’s circumstances are at the present moment
in an embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing
to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred
and the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have
staved off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to
staving off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out
of pocket to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily
look to being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and
I have a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to
realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My
apprehension is, Mr. C.’s circumstances being such, lest it should end
in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all events
is desirable to be made known to his connexions.”
Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged
into the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was

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his tone, and looked before him again.

“Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource,” said
my guardian to me. “Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He
would never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it
would be to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did.”
Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.
“What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done, I do not say that
anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here under
the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything may be
openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that every-
thing was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything should be
openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me. If I con-
sulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be here. So
insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his objections.
This is not a professional attendance. This can he charged to nobody. I
have no interest in it except as a member of society and a father—and
a son,” said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point.
It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than
the truth in intimating that he sought to divide the
responsibility, such as it was, of knowing Richard’s situation. I could
only suggest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then
stationed, and see him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst.
Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my guardian
aside to propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and
warmed his funeral gloves.
The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian’s part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too
happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr.
Vholes.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “Miss Summerson will communi-
cate with Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may
be yet retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your
journey, sir.”
“I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce,” said Mr. Vholes, putting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, “not any. I thank you,
no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a

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poor knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at
this period of the day, I don’t know what the consequences might be.
Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your
permission take my leave.”
“And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Vholes,” returned my guardian bitterly, “of a cause
you know of.”
Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it
had quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant per-
fume, made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck
and slowly shook it.
“We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of respectable
practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the wheel. We do it, sir. At
least, I do it myself; and I wish to think well of my professional brethren, one
and all. You are sensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, in commu-
nicating with Mr. C.?”
I said I would be careful not to do it.
“Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir.”
Mr. Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any
hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian’s fingers, and
took his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the
coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London,
chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.
Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and
why I was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But
she was too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and
words of excuse, and in a more loving spirit still—my dear devoted
girl!—she wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.
Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I
wanted none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went
to London that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, se-
cured them. At our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away
seaward with the Kentish letters.
It was a night’s journey in those coach times, but we had the mail
to ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with
me as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances.
At one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless.

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Now I thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I

could ever have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reason-
able things in the world that I should have come, and now one of the
most unreasonable. In what state I should find Richard, what I should
say to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by
turns with these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play
one tune (to which the burden of my guardian’s letter set itself ) over
and over again all night.
At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy
they were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its
little irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans,
and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and
blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and
weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea was
heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but a
few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their bod-
ies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they were
spinning themselves into cordage.
But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat
down, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was
too late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful.
Our little room was like a ship’s cabin, and that delighted Charley very
much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships
that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don’t know how many sail
the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these vessels
were of grand size—one was a large Indiaman just come home; and
when the sun shone through the clouds, maktng silvery pools in the
dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed, and
changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to them and
from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in themselves and
everything around them, was most beautiful.
The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come
into the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we
said how glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore.
Charley was curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in
India, and the serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such
information much faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on

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those points. I told her, too, how people in such voyages were some-
times wrecked and cast on rocks, where they were saved by the
intrepidity and humanity of one man. And Charley asking how
that could be, I told her how we knew at home of such a case.
I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he
lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but
we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-
yard, we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning,
and I asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he
lived. He sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare
stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.
“Now then!” cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the
little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, “Can I come
in, Richard? It’s only Dame Durden.”
He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed—in plain clothes, I observed, not in
uniform—and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his
room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was
seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me
in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me.
Down to—ah, poor poor fellow!—to the end, he never received me
but with something of his old merry boyish manner.
“Good heaven, my dear little woman,” said he, “how do you come
here? Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter?
Ada is well?”
“Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!”
“Ah!” he said, lenning back in his chair. “My poor cousin! I was
writing to you, Esther.”
So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his hand-
some youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely writ-
ten sheet of paper in his hand!
“Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?” I asked.
“Oh, my dear,” he returned with a hopeless gesture. “You may read
it in the whole room. It is all over here.”

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I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had

heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.
“Like you, Esther, but useless, and so not like you!” said he with a
melancholy smile. “I am away on leave this day—should have been
gone in another hour—and that is to smooth it over, for my selling
out. Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I
only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all
the professions.”
“Richard,” I urged, “it is not so hopeless as that?”
“Esther,” he returned, “it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as that
those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes) would
far rather be without me than with me. And they are right. Apart from
debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even for this em-
ployment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but for one
thing. Why, if this bubble hadn’t broken now,” he said, tearing the
letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting them away,
by driblets, “how could I have gone abroad? I must have been ordered
abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my experience
of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his back!”
I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he
caught the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips
with it to prevent me from going on.
“No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid—must forbid. The
first is John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness,
and I tell you I can’t help it now, and can’t be sane. But it is no such
thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was
prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be
wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I
have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very agree-
able, too, to some people; but I never will.”
He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took
out Ada’s letter and put it in his hand.
“Am I to read it now?” he asked.
As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon
his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon

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his two hands—to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as
if the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it
there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had
folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his
hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.
“Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?” He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.
“Yes, Richard.”
“Offers me,” he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, “the
little inheritance she is certain of so soon—just as little and as much
as I have wasted—and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right
with it, and remain in the service.”
“I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,” said I.
“And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada’s is a noble heart.”
“I am sure it is. I—I wish I was dead!”
He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned
his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I
hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My
experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his rousing
himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.
“And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me,” said he indignantly. “And the dear girl makes me this generous
offer from under the same John Jarndyce’s roof, and with the same
John Jarndyce’s gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new
means of buying me off.”
“Richard!” I cried out, rising hastily. “I will not hear you say such
shameful words!” I was very angry with him indeed, for the first
time in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn
young face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his
shoulder and said, “If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in
such a tone to me. Consider!”
He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous
manner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon
a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I
was rather fluttered after being so fiery.
“To accept this offer, my dear Esther,” said he, sitting down
beside me and resuming our conversation, “—once more, pray, pray
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forgive me; I am deeply grieved—to accept my dearest cousin’s offer

is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I
could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have
done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in the
midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing
Ada’s interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the
wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me,
thank God!”
His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his fea-
tures, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been before.
“No, no!” cried Richard exultingly. “If every farthing of Ada’s little
fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining me in
what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary of. It
should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should be
used where she has a larger stake. Don’t be uneasy for me! I shall now
have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I
shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able
to compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but
their bond now—Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour
anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter
to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful
of me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear.”
I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and
nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only came
from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw that on
the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless to make any
representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in this very
interview, the sense of my guardian’s remark that it was even more
mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was.
Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and that
it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation a
correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was arranged.
I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies of these
papers and had been in consultation with him throughout. Beyond
ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada’s letter, and being
(as I was going to be) Richard’s companion back to London, I had

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done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a

reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he
joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me
to the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.
There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some
naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about
them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of
the great Indiaman’s boats now, and we stopped to look.
The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-
humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. “Charley,
Charley,” said I, “come away!” And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.
It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had
time to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste.
In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt,
and I had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling
that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and
my courage had quite failed me.
But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, “My
dear, there is no reason—there is and there can be no reason at all—
why it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you
were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better.
This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!” I was in a
great tremble—with running—and at first was quite unable to calm
myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.
The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the stair-
case. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices
again—I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt’s. It would still have been a
great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known,
but I was determined not to do so. “No, my dear, no. No, no, no!”
I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up—I think I mean half
down, but it matters very little—and wrote on one of my cards that
I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to
Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to
be by chance among the first to welcome him home to England.
And I saw that he was very sorry for me.

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“You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt,” said I, “but we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the truest
interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old patient, poor
Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe illness.”
“Ah! Little Miss Flite!” he said. “She lives the same life yet?”
“Just the same.”
I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and
to be able to put it aside.
“Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say.”
“You—you have found her so?” he returned. “I—I am glad of that.”
He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.
“I assure you,” said I, “that I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to.”
“I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill.”
“I was very ill.”
“But you have quite recovered?”
“I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness,” said I. “You
know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I
have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to desire.”
I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had
for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to
find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I
spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans,
and of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful.
He had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here.
He had gone out a poor ship’s surgeon and had come home nothing
better. While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I
had alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in
seeing me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairs who was with
me, and they met with cordial pleasure.
I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke
of Richard’s career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not
going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there
were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he
looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew

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what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and
in good spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt
again, whom he had always liked.
Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but
Mr. Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could
not join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became
so much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace
to think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not
relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and Richard
ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.
I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I
referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to
his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt
listened with interest and expressed his regret.
“I saw you observe him rather closely,” said I, “Do you think him
so changed?”
“He is changed,” he returned, shaking his head.
I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was only
an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was gone.
“It is not,” said Mr. Woodcourt, “his being so much younger or
older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his
face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in a
young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all weariness;
yet it is both, and like ungrown despair.”
“You do not think he is ill?” said I.
No. He looked robust in body.
“That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know,” I proceeded. “Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?”
“To-morrow or the next day.”
“There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always
liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him some-
times with your companionship if you can. You do not know of
what service it might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr.
Jarndyce, and even I—how we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!”
“Miss Summerson,” he said, more moved than he had been from
the first, “before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!”

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“God bless you!” said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought they
might, when it was not for myself. “Ada loves him—we all love him,
but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say. Thank you,
and God bless you, in her name!”
Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words
and gave me his arm to take me to the coach.
“Woodcourt,” he said, unconscious with what application, “pray
let us meet in London!”
“Meet?” returned the other. “I have scarcely a friend there now but
you. Where shall I find you?”
“Why, I must get a lodging of some sort,” said Richard, ponder-
ing. “Say at Vholes’s, Symond’s Inn.”
“Good! Without loss of time.”
They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and
Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly
hand on Richard’s shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and
waved mine in thanks.
And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may feel
if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly remem-
bered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.

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CHAPTER XLVI

Stop Him!
DARKNESS RESTS UPON Tom-All-Alone’s. Dilating and dilating since
the sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills
every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights
burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone’s, heavily, heavily,
in the nauseous air, and winking—as that lamp, too, winks in Tom-
all-Alone’s—at many horrible things. But they are blotted out. The
moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some puny
emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and blasted
by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. The blackest
nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone’s, and
Tom is fast asleep.
Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of
Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how
Tom shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road
by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of figures,
or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by low church,
or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting trusses of po-
lemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or whether he
shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of which dust
and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit, that Tom only
may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according to somebody’s
theory but nobody’s practice. And in the hopeful meantime, Tom
goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined spirit.
But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they
serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Tom’s
corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere.

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It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists
on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and
his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance. There is
not an atom of Tom’s slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in
which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an
ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but
shall work its retribution through every order of society up to the
proudest of the proud and to the highest of the high. Verily, what with
tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.
It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone’s be uglier by day or by
night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more
shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination is
at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it. The day
begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the national
glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the British do-
minions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder as Tom.
A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude
for sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a
restless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by cu-
riosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the mis-
erable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark eye
there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there, he
seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it before.
On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main
street of Tom-all-Alone’s, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses,
shut up and silent. No waking creature save himself appears except in
one direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on
a door-step. He walks that way. Approaching, he observes that she
has journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained. She
sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her
elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas
bag, or bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, for she gives
no heed to his steps as he comes toward her.
The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt
comes to where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass
her. Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops.
“What is the matter?”

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“Nothing, sir.”
“Can’t you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?”
“I’m walting till they get up at another house—a lodging-house—
not here,” the woman patiently returns. “I’m waiting here because
there will be sun here presently to warm me.”
“I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street.”
“Thank you, sir. It don’t matter.”
A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage
or condescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, many
people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little spelling
books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.
“Let me look at your forehead,” he says, bending down. “I am a
doctor. Don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed
hand he can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objec-
tion, saying, “It’s nothing”; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.
“Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be very
sore.”
“It do ache a little, sir,” returns the woman with a started tear upon
her cheek.
“Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won’t
hurt you.”
“Oh, dear no, sir, I’m sure of that!”
He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefully ex-
amined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes a
small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While he is
thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery in
the street, “And so your husband is a brickmaker?”
“How do you know that, sir?” asks the woman, astonished.
“Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and
on your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at piece-
work in different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them
cruel to their wives too.”
The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her
injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon her

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forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly drops
them again.
“Where is he now?” asks the surgeon.
“He got into trouble last night, sir; but he’ll look for me at the
lodging-house.”
“He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutal as
he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deserved it. You
have no young child?”
The woman shakes her head. “One as I calls mine, sir, but it’s
Liz’s.”
“Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!”
By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. “I
suppose you have some settled home. Is it far from here?” he asks,
good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up
and curtsys.
“It’s a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a start like,
as if you did.”
“Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question
in return. Have you money for your lodging?”
“Yes, sir,” she says, “really and truly.” And she shows it. He tells
her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is
very welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alone’s
is still asleep, and nothing is astir.
Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from which
he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a
ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the
soiled walls—which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid—
and furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youth
whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is
so intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a stranger
in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. He shades his
face with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other side of the way,
and goes shrinking and creeping on with his anxious hand before
him and his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds. Clothes made for
what purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say.

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They look, in colour and in substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of

swampy growth that rotted long ago.
Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with
a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall
how or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a
form. He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or
refuge, still, cannot make out why it comes with any special force on
his remembrance.
He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone’s in the morning
light, thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and
looking round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed,
followed by the woman.
“Stop him, stop him!” cries the woman, almost breath less. “Stop
him, sir!”
He darts across the road into the boy’s path, but the boy is
quicker than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comes
up half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still the
woman follows, crying, “Stop him, sir, pray stop him!” Allan, not
knowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in
chase and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, but
each time he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away
again. To strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell and
disable him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and so the
grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed,
takes to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare.
Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay and
tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at
him until the woman comes up.
“Oh, you, Jo!” cries the woman. “What? I have found you at last!”
“Jo,” repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, “Jo! Stay. To
be sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the
coroner.”
“Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich,” whimpers Jo. “What
of that? Can’t you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An’t I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur
to be? I’ve been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and
nixt by another on you, till I’m worritted to skins and bones. The

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inkwhich warn’t my fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to

me, he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever
come across my crossing. It ain’t wery likely I should want him to
be inkwhiched. I only wish I wos, myself. I don’t know why I don’t
go and make a hole in the water, I’m sure I don’t.”
He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so
real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a growth
of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in neglect
and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him. He
says to the woman, “Miserable creature, what has he done?”
To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrily, “Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you
at last!”
“What has he done?” says Allan. “Has he robbed you?”
“No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-
hearted by me, and that’s the wonder of it.”
Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo,
waiting for one of them to unravel the riddle.
“But he was along with me, sir,” says the woman. “Oh, you Jo!
He was along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young
lady, Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when
I durstn’t, and took him home—”
Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.
“Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and
like a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been
seen or heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that young
lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful
looks, and wouldn’t hardly be known for the same young lady now
if it wasn’t for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet
voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that
this is all along of you and of her goodness to you?” demands the
woman, beginning to rage at him as she recalls it and breaking into
passionate tears.
The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground,
and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against
which he leans rattles.

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Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but effectually.

“Richard told me—” He falters. “I mean, I have heard of this—
don’t mind me for a moment, I will speak presently.”
He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered
passage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure, ex-
cept that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which is so
very remarkable that it absorbs the woman’s attention.
“You hear what she says. But get up, get up!”
Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after the man-
ner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting
one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing his right
hand over his left and his left foot over his right.
“You hear what she says, and I know it’s true. Have you been here
ever since?”
“Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone’s till this blessed morn-
ing,” replies Jo hoarsely.
“Why have you come here now?”
Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no
higher than the knees, and finally answers, “I don’t know how to do
nothink, and I can’t get nothink to do. I’m wery poor and ill, and I
thought I’d come back here when there warn’t nobody about, and lay
down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go
and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin fur to give me
somethink he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she was allus a-
chivying on me—like everybody everywheres.”
“Where have you come from?”
Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner’s knees
again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a
sort of resignation.
“Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?”
“Tramp then,” says Jo.
“Now tell me,” proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to over-
come his repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him
with an expression of confidence, “tell me how it came about that
you left that house when the good young lady had been so unfortu-
nate as to pity you and take you home.”
Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,

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addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady,
that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that
he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he’d sooner have had his
unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos
wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himself throughout as if in
his poor fashion he really meant it, and winding up with some very
miserable sobs.
Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains him-
self to touch him. “Come, Jo. Tell me.”
“No. I dustn’t,” says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. “I
dustn’t, or I would.”
“But I must know,” returns the other, “all the same. Come, Jo.”
After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, “Well, I’ll tell
you something. I was took away. There!”
“Took away? In the night?”
“Ah!” Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him
and even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and
through the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be look-
ing over or hidden on the other side.
“Who took you away?”
“I dustn’t name him,” says Jo. “I dustn’t do it, sir.
“But I want, in the young lady’s name, to know. You may trust
me. No one else shall hear.”
“Ah, but I don’t know,” replies Jo, shaking his head fearfulty, “as
he don’t hear.”
“Why, he is not in this place.”
“Oh, ain’t he though?” says Jo. “He’s in all manner of places, all at
wanst.”
Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning
and good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He patiently
awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by his patience than
by anything else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear.
“Aye!” says Allan. “Why, what had you been doing?”
“Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,
‘sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I’m a-moving on
now. I’m a-moving on to the berryin ground—that’s the move as

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I’m up to.”
“No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with
you?”
“Put me in a horsepittle,” replied Jo, whispering, “till I was dis-
charged, then giv me a little money—four half-bulls, wot you may
call half-crowns—and ses ‘Hook it! Nobody wants you here,’ he ses.
‘You hook it. You go and tramp,’ he ses. ‘You move on,’ he ses.
‘Don’t let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of London, or
you’ll repent it.’ So I shall, if ever he doos see me, and he’ll see me if
I’m above ground,” concludes Jo, nervously repeating all his former
precautions and investigations.
Allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman but
keeping an encouraging eye on Jo, “He is not so ungrateful as you
supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an insuffi-
cient one.”
“Thankee, sir, thankee!” exclaims Jo. “There now! See how hard you
wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and
it’s all right. For you wos wery good to me too, and I knows it.”
“Now, Jo,” says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, “come with me
and I will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. If
I take one side of the way and you the other to avoid observation,
you will not run away, I know very well, if you make me a promise.”
“I won’t, not unless I wos to see him a-coming, sir.”
“Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good day again, my good woman.”
“Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again.”
She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises
and takes it up. Jo, repeating, “Ony you tell the young lady as I never
went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!” nods and shambles
and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and half cries, a
farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after Allan Woodcourt,
close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. In this order,
the two come up out of Tom-all-Alone’s into the broad rays of the
sunlight and the purer air.

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CHAPTER XLVII

Jo’s Will
AS ALLAN WOODCOURT AND JO proceed along the streets where the
high church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morn-
ing light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in
his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. “It surely is
a strange fact,” he considers, “that in the heart of a civilized world this
creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of than
an unowned dog.” But it is none the less a fact because of its strange-
ness, and the difficulty remains.
At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still
really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close
to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from
brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along,
glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing in
his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on, considering with
a less divided attention what he shall do.
A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, knead-
ing dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to
Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to
gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all direc-
tions as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.
But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned
him. “I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir,” says Jo, soon putting
down his food, “but I don’t know nothink—not even that. I don’t

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care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on ‘em.” And Jo stands
shivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.
Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest.
“Draw breath, Jo!” “It draws,” says Jo, “as heavy as a cart.” He might
add, “And rattles like it,” but he only mutters, “I’m a-moving on, sir.”
Allan looks about for an apothecary’s shop. There is none at hand,
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of wine
and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to revive
almost as soon as it passes his lips. “We may repeat that dose, Jo,”
observes Allan after watching him with his attentive face. “So! Now
we will take five minutes’ rest, and then go on again.”
Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with
his back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and down
in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him with-
out appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive
that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his
face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice of
bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of
improvement, Allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his
no small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its
consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has
finished his story and his bread, they go on again.
Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite, Allan
leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered. But all
is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer lodges
there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much obscured by
dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other than the
interesting Judy, is tart and spare in her replies. These sufficing, how-
ever, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her birds are domiciled
with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to that neighbouring
place, where Miss Flite (who rises early that she may be punctual at
the divan of justice held by her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes
running downstairs with tears of welcome and with open arms.
“My dear physician!” cries Miss Flite. “My meritorious, distin-
guished, honourable officer!” She uses some odd expressions, but is
as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be—more so than it

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often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has no more
raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a doorway, and
tells her how he comes there.
“Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you
have a fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me.
Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to con-
sider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder
is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley’s room. “Gridley!”
exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth repetition
of this remark. “Gridley! To be sure! Of course! My dear physician!
General George will help us out.”
It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George,
and would be, though Miss Flite had not akeady run upstairs to put
on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself
with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in
her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General
George, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce
and takes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced
to think that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his
encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and
they repair to the general’s. Fortunately it is not far.
From the exterior of George’s Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,
and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He
also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding to-
wards them in his mornmg exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no
stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and dumb-
bell, weightily asserting themselves through his light shirt-sleeves.
“Your servant, sir,” says Mr. George with a military salute. Good-
humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and at
some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He
winds it up with another “Your servant, sir!” and another salute.
“Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?” says Mr. George.
“I am proud to find I have the air of one,” returns Allan; “but I am
only a sea-going doctor.”
“Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself.”

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Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily
on that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe,
which, in his politeness, he has testifled some intention of doing.
“You are very good, sir,” returns the trooper. “As I know by experi-
ence that it’s not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it’s equally
agreeable to yourself—” and finishes the sentence by putting it be-
tween his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he knows about
Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.
“And that’s the lad, sir, is it?” he inquires, looking along the entry
to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the whitewashed
front, which have no meaning in his eyes.
“That’s he,” says Allan. “And, Mr. George, I am in this difficulty about
him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could procure
him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not stay there
many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same objection
applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be evaded and
shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to get him into
one, which is a system that I don’t take kindly to.”
“No man does, sir,” returns Mr. George.
“I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because
he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered
him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person
to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything.”
“I ask your pardon, sir,” says Mr. George. “But you have not men-
tioned that party’s name. Is it a secret, sir?”
“The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket.”
“Bucket the detective, sir?”
“The same man.”
“The man is known to me, sir,” returns the trooper after blowing
out a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, “and the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a—rum customer.” Mr. George smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in silence.
“Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know
that this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have
it in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent

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people and Jo, Mr. George,” says Allan, following the direction of
the trooper’s eyes along the entry, “have not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in
this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my pay-
ing for him beforehand?”
As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little
man standing at the trooper’s elbow and looking up, with an oddly
twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper’s face. After a few
more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little
man, and the little man winks up at the trooper.
“Well, sir,” says Mr. George, “I can assure you that I would
willingiy be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a privilege
to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in
the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You see what the
place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the same
would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We are
not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are liable to be
tumbled out neck and crop at a moment’s notice. However, sir, such as
the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at your service.”
With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the
whole building at his visitor’s disposal.
“I take it for granted, sir,” he adds, “you being one of the
medical staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortu-
nate subject?”
Allan is quite sure of it.
“Because, sir,” says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, “we
have had enough of that.”
His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance. ‘Still I am
bound to tell you,” observes Allan after repeating his former assurance, “that
the boy is deplorably low and reduced and that he may be—I do not say that
he is—too far gone to recover.”
“Do you consider him in present danger, sir?” inquires the trooper.
“Yes, I fear so.”
“Then, sir,” returns the trooper in a decisive manner, “it appears to
me—being naturally in the vagabond way myself—that the sooner
he comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!”

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Bleak House

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of com-
mand; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought
in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle’s Tockahoopo Indians; he is not
one of Mrs. Jellyby’s lambs, being wholly unconnected with
Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he
is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made
article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a common
creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely filth
begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in him,
homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English soil
and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts that per-
ish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy
foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee.
He shuffles slowly into Mr. George’s gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know
that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he is
and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He is
not of the same order of things, not of the same place in creation. He
is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor of humanity.
“Look here, Jo!” says Allan. “This is Mr. George.”
Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.
“He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging
room here.”
Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow.
After a little more consideration and some backing and changing of
the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is “wery thankful.”
“You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo.”
“Wishermaydie if I don’t, sir,” says Jo, reverting to his favourite
declaration. “I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get
myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir, ‘sept
not knowin’ nothink and starwation.”
“I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to speak
to you.”
“My intention merely was, sir,” observes Mr. George, amazingly
broad and upright, “to point out to him where he can lie down and
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get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here.” As the trooper
speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens
one of the little cabins. “There you are, you see! Here is a mattress,
and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your
pardon, sir”—he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given
him—”Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don’t you be alarmed if you hear
shots; they’ll be aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there’s an-
other thing I would recommend, sir,” says the trooper, turning to his
visitor. “Phil, come here!”
Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. “Here is
a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently,
it is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor crea-
ture. You do, don’t you, Phil?”
“Certainly and surely I do, guv’ner,” is Phil’s reply.
“Now I was thinking, sir,” says Mr. George in a martial sort of
confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a
drum-head, “that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay
out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles—”
“Mr. George, my considerate friend,” returns Allan, taking out his
purse, “it is the very favour I would have asked.”
Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of im-
provement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the
best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her friend
the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the judgment
she has so long expected in her absence, and observing “which you
know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years, would be
too absurdly unfortunate!” Allan takes the opportunity of going out
to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them near at
hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down the
gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.
“I take it, sir,” says Mr. George, “that you know Miss Summerson
pretty well?”
Yes, it appears.
“Not related to her, sir?”
No, it appears.
“Excuse the apparent curiosity,” says Mr. George. “It seemed to
me probable that you might take more than a common interest in

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this poor creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortu-
nate interest in him. ’Tis my case, sir, I assure you.”
“And mine, Mr. George.”
The trooper looks sideways at Allan’s sunburnt cheek and bright
dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to ap-
prove of him.
“Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I unques-
tionably know the rooms in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Bucket took
the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted with
the name, I can help you to it. It’s Tulkinghorn. That’s what it is.”
Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.
“Tulkinghorn. That’s the name, sir. I know the man, and know
him to have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting
a deceased person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir.
To my sorrow.”
Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.
“What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?”
“I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?”
“Why, then I’ll tell you, sir,” returns the trooper, stopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face fires
and flushes all over; “he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He is a
slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood than
a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man—by George!—that has
caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more dissatis-
faction with myself than all other men put together. That’s the kind
of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!”
“I am sorry,” says Allan, “to have touched so sore a place.”
“Sore?” The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his
broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. “It’s no fault
of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me. He is
the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of this
place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won’t
hold off, and he won’t come on. If I have a payment to make him, or
time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don’t see me,
don’t hear me—passes me on to Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn,
Melchisedech’s in Clifford’s Inn passes me back again to him—he keeps

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me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same

stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well, loitering
and dodging about his door. What does he care? Nothing. Just as much
as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads
me till—Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt,”
the trooper resumes his march, “all I say is, he is an old man; but I am
glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and
riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, in one of the
humours he drives me into—he’d go down, sir!”
Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe
his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuos-
ity away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his
head and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an
occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar,
as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a
choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt
about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.
Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of
medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He re-
pairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without seek-
ing rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.
With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that
there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and showing a
serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in substance what he
said in the morning, without any material variation. Only that cart of his
is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound.
“Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more,” falters Jo,
“and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to
sleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-
moving on right forards with his duty, and I’ll be wery thankful. I’d
be more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an
unfortnet to be it.”
He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce,
good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook’s Court, the rather, as the

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cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook’s Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of several
skins which has just come in from the engrosser’s, an immense desert
of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a
few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the traveller
from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells and greets
the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Snagsby?”
The stationer’s heart begins to thump heavily, for his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to an-
swer, “No, sir, I can’t say I do. I should have considered—not to put
too fine a point upon it—that I never saw you before, sir.”
“Twice before,” says Allan Woodcourt. “Once at a poor bedside,
and once—”
“It’s come at last!” thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection
breaks upon him. “It’s got to a head now and is going
to burst!” But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visi-
tor into the little counting-house and to shut the door.
“Are you a married man, sir?”
“No, I am not.”
“Would you make the attempt, though single,” says Mr. Snagsby
in a melancholy whisper, “to speak as low as you can? For my little
woman is a-listening somewheres, or I’ll forfeit the business and five
hundred pound!”
In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his
back against his desk, protesting, “I never had a secret of my own, sir.
I can’t charge my memory with ever having once attempted to de-
ceive my little woman on my own account since she named the day.
I wouldn’t have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I
couldn’t have done it, I dursn’t have done it. Whereas, and neverthe-
less, I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my
life is a burden to me.”
His visitor professes his regret to bear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh,
don’t he!
“You couldn’t name an individual human being—except myself—
that my little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,”
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 Dickens

says Mr. Snagsby.

Allan asks why.
“Why?” repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the
clump of hair at the back of his bald head. “How should 1 know
why? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to
ask a married person such a question!”
With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to com-
municate.
“There again!” says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of
his feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the
face. “At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me, in
the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little woman.
Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself, and
charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that
other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private
asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!” says Mr. Snagsby.
But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of the
mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen.
And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo’s
condition, he readily engages to “look round” as early in the evening
as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the
evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a
manager as he.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come
so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched
by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a
crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.
“And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?” inquires the statio-
ner with his cough of sympathy.
“I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am,” returns Jo, “and don’t want for
nothink. I’m more cumfbler nor you can’t think. Mr. Sangsby! I’m
wery sorry that I done it, but I didn’t go fur to do it, sir.”
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him
what it is that he is sorry for having done.

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“Mr. Sangsby,” says Jo, “I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos
and yit as warn’t the t’other lady, and none of ‘em never says nothink
to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my
having been s’unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday,
and she ses, ‘Ah, Jo!’ she ses. ‘We thought we’d lost you, Jo!’ she ses.
And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don’t pass a word nor yit a
look upon me for having done it, she don’t, and I turns agin the wall,
I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a-forced to turn
away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me
somethink fur to ease me, wot he’s allus a-doin’ on day and night,
and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I see
his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby.”
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve
his feelings.
“Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby,” proceeds Jo, “wos, as you
wos able to write wery large, p’raps?”
“Yes, Jo, please God,” returns the stationer.
“Uncommon precious large, p’raps?” says Jo with eagerness.
“Yes, my poor boy.”
Jo laughs with pleasure. “Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr.
Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go
and couldn’t he moved no furder, whether you might be so good
p’raps as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres,
as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never
went fur to do it, and that though I didn’t know nothink at all, I
knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over
it, and that I hoped as he’d be able to forgive me in his mind. If the
writin could be made to say it wery large, he might.”
“It shall say it, Jo. Very large.”
Jo laughs again. “Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It’s wery kind of you, sir,
and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore.”
The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough,
slips down his fourth half-crown—he has never been so close to a
case requiring so many—and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon
this little earth, shall meet no more. No more.
For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey’s end and drags over

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stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps,
shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it
still upon its weary road.
Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as
nurse and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often
looking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an
encouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, “Hold up, my boy! Hold
up!” There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt
almost always, both thinking, much, how strangely fate has en-
tangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives. There,
too, the trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his
athletic figure and, from his superfluity of life and strength, seem-
ing to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to
speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.
Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly
arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards
him—just as he sat in the law-writer’s room—and touches his chest and
heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little more.
The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped
in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr.
Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and
attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper, signs
to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next used,
there will be a speck of rust upon it.
“Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don’t be frightened.”
“I thought,” says Jo, who has started and is looking round, “I
thought I was in Tom-all-Alone’s agin. Ain’t there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?”
“Nobody.”
“And I ain’t took back to Tom-all-Alone’s. Am I, sir?”
“No.” Jo closes his eyes, muttering, “I’m wery thankful.”
After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth
very near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, “Jo! Did you
ever know a prayer?”
“Never knowd nothink, sir.”
“Not so much as one short prayer?”

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Bleak House

“No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at

Mr. Sangsby’s and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin
to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn’t make out
nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down
Tom-all-Alone’s a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t’other ‘wuns
prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to theirselves,
or a-passing blame on the t’others, and not a-talkin to us. We never
knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about.”
It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced
and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a
short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong
effort to get out of bed.
“Stay, Jo! What now?”
“It’s time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir,” he returns
with a wild look.
“Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?”
“Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me
indeed, he wos. It’s time fur me to go down to that there berryin
ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there
and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ‘I am as poor as you to-day,
Jo,’ he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have
come there to be laid along with him.”
“By and by, Jo. By and by.”
“Ah! P’raps they wouldn’t do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?”
“I will, indeed.”
“Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They’ll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it’s allus locked. And there’s a step
there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It’s turned wery dark,
sir. Is there any light a-comin?”
“It is coming fast, Jo.”
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is
very near its end.
“Jo, my poor fellow!”
“I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I’m a-gropin—a-gropin—let me
catch hold of your hand.”
“Jo, can you say what I say?”

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“I’ll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it’s good.”
“Our Father.”
“Our Father! Yes, that’s wery good, sir.”
“Which art in heaven.”
“Art in heaven—is the light a-comin, sir?”
“It is close at hand. Hallowed by thy name!”
“Hallowed be—thy—”
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
us every day.

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CHAPTER XLVIII

Closing in
THE PLACE IN LINCOLNSHIRE has shut its many eyes again, and the
house in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past
doze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through
the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In
town the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages
through the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock Mercuries, with
ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great
humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the
hall. The fashionable world—tremendous orb, nearly five miles
round—is in full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its
appointed distances.
Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and refine-
ment, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has scaled and
taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed in
herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under her mantle
of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance that what she is
to those around her she will remain another day, it is not in her
nature when envious eyes are looking on to yield or to droop. They
say of her that she has lately grown more handsome and more haughty.
The debilitated cousin says of her that she’s beauty nough—tsetup
shopofwomen—but rather larming kind—remindingmanfact—in-
convenient woman—who will getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment—
Shakespeare.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as hereto-
fore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white

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cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patron-

age from the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the
last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady.
Of all woman she is still the last who might be supposed to have
any dread of him.
One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in
his turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared
to throw it off.
It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are repos-
ing in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures,
like overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a
deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library,
has fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a
Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she
gave audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with
her and has been writing for her and reading to her. Rosa is now at
work upon embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends
her head over it, my Lady watches her in silence. Not for the first
time to-day.
“Rosa.”
The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how
serious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.
“See to the door. Is it shut?”
Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.
“I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may
trust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to
do, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you.
Say nothing to any one of what passes between us.”
The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.
“Do you know,” Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring
her chair nearer, “do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?”
“Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as
you really are.”
“You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor

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child!”
She says it with a kind of scorn—though not of Rosa—and sits
brooding, looking dreamily at her.
“Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful
to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?”
“I don’t know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so.”
“It is so, little one.”
The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark ex-
pression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an ex-
planation.
“And if I were to say to-day, ‘Go! Leave me!’ I should say what
would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave
me very solitary.”
“My Lady! Have I offended you?”
“In nothing. Come here.”
Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady’s feet. My Lady,
with that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her
hand upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there. “ I
told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would make
you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot. There
are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part,
rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You
must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have
written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All this
I have done for your sake.”
The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall
she do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress
kisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer.
“Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved
and happy!”
“Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought—forgive my being so
free—that you are not happy.”
“I!”
“Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray,
think again. Let me stay a little while!”

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“I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now—
not what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my
confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!”
She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves
the room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the
staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent as if
all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the earlier ages
of the world and had perished from its surface with its other de-
parted monsters.
Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to
the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first.
“Sir Leicester, I am desirous—but you are engaged.”
Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.
Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from
him for a moment.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?”
With a look that plainly says, “You know you have the power to
remain if you will,” she tells him it is not necessary and moves to-
wards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with
his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed be-
tween her and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his
shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he
darken her life.
It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-a-dozen
of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared into stone
rather than originally built in that material. It is a street of such dis-
mal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to liveliness, that the
doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their own in black paint
and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry and massive ap-
pearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone chargers of noble
statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines itself over the
flights of steps in this awful street, and from these petrified bowers,
extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas. Here
and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to

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throw their friends’ caps (its only present use), retains its place among
the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil
itself, yet lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with a
knob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights
every night, like its high and dry master in the House of Lords.
Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair,
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn
stands. And yet—and yet—she sends a look in that direction as if it
were her heart’s desire to have that figure moved out of the way.
Sir Leicester begs his Lady’s pardon. She was about to say?
“Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appoint-
ment) and that we had better make an end of the question of that
girl. I am tired to death of the matter.”
“What can I do—to—assist?” demands Sir Leicester in some con-
siderable doubt.
“Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?”
“Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,”
says Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the
business term, “request the iron gentleman to walk this way.”
Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and pro-
duces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously.
“I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor,
Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell,” Sir Le-
icester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, “was
desirous to speak with you. Hem!”
“I shall be very happy,” returns the iron gentleman, “to give my best
attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say.”
As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes
upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is noth-
ing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.
“Pray, sir,” says Lady Dedlock listlessly, “may I be allowed to in-
quire whether anything has passed between you and your son re-
specting your son’s fancy?”
It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

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“If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son
to conquer that—fancy.” The ironmaster repeats her expression with
a little emphasis.
“And did you?”
“Oh! Of course I did.”
Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very
proper. The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was
bound to do it. No difference in this respect between the base metals
and the precious. Highly proper.
“And pray has he done so?”
“Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple
an intention with our—our fancies which renders them not alto-
gether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest.”
Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish
meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is
perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evi-
dently adapts his tone to his reception.
“Because,” proceeds my Lady, “I have been thinking of the sub-
ject, which is tiresome to me.”
“I am very sorry, I am sure.”
“And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite con-
cur”—Sir Leicester flattered—”and if you cannot give us the assur-
ance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion that
the girl had better leave me.”
“I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind.”
“Then she had better go.”
“Excuse me, my Lady,” Sir Leicester considerately interposes, “but
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she
has not merited. Here is a young woman,” says Sir Leicester, mag-
nificently laying out the matter with his right hand like service of
plate, “whose good fortune it is to have attracted the notice and favour
of an eminent lady and to live, under the protection of that eminent
lady, surrounded by the various advantages which such a position
confers, and which are unquestionably very great—I believe unques-
tionably very great, sir—for a young woman in that station of life.

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The question then arises, should that young woman be deprived of

these many advantages and that good fortune simply because she
has”—Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of
his head towards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence—”has at-
tracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell’s son? Now, has she deserved
this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previous under-
standing?”
“I beg your pardon,” interposes Mr. Rouncewell’s son’s father. “Sir
Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray
dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so
unimportant—which is not to be expected—you would recollect
that my first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her re-
maining here.”
Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Le-
icester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down
to him through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted
their report of the iron gentleman’s observations.
“It is not necessary,” observes my Lady in her coldest manner be-
fore he can do anything but breathe amazedly, “to enter into these
matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing
whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many
advantages and her good fortune that she is in love—or supposes she
is, poor little fool—and unable to appreciate them.”
Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might
have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in
support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young
woman had better go.
“As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion
when we were fatigued by this business,” Lady Dedlock languidly pro-
ceeds, “we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions,
and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and
had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back
to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would
you prefer?”
“Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly—”
“By all means.”
“—I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of

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the incumbrance and remove her from her present position.”

“And to speak as plainly,” she returns with the same studied careless-
ness, “so should I. Do I understand that you will take her with you?”
The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.
“Sir Leicester, will you ring?” Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from his
window and pulls the bell. “I had forgotten you. Thank you.” He makes
his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury, swift-responsive,
appears, receives instructions whom to produce, skims away, produces
the aforesaid, and departs.
Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the
ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with her
near the door ready to depart.
“You are taken charge of, you see,” says my Lady in her weary
manner, “and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that
you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.”
“She seems after all,” observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little for-
ward with his hands behind him, “as if she were crying at going away.”
“Why, she is not well-bred, you see,” returns Mr. Rouncewell with
some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to
retort upon, “and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows no bet-
ter. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s composed reply.
Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she
was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and
that she thanks my Lady over and over again. “Out, you silly little
puss!” says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not
angrily. “Have a spirit, if you’re fond of Watt!” My Lady merely
waves her off with indifference, saying, “There, there, child! You are
a good girl. Go away!” Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged
himself from the subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue
coat. Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now
dotted with lamps, looms in my Lady’s view, bigger and blacker
than before.
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause
of a few moments, “I beg to take my leave, with an apology for
having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tire-
some subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome

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so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubt-

ful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly
exert my influence to take my young friend here away without trou-
bling you at all. But it appeared to me—I dare say magnifying the
importance of the thing—that it was respectful to explain to you
how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and conve-
nience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the
polite world.”
Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these
remarks. “Mr. Rouncewell,” he returns, “do not menfion it. Justifi-
cations are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.”
“I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last
word, revert to what I said before of my mother’s long
connexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides,
I would point out this little instance here on my arm who shows
herself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom my mother,
I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings—though of
course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her genial conde-
scension, has done much more.
If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points
it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of
speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim
room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting
salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another flight,
and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.
Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still stand-
ing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still sitting
with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night as well as of
the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing it as she rises to
retire, thinks, “Well she may be! The power of this woman is astonish-
ing. She has been acting a part the whole time.” But he can act a part
too—his one unchanging character—and as he holds the door open
for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than Sir
Leicester’s pair, should find no flaw in him.
Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture
of the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to din-

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ner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated cousin’s
text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone
yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone yet? No. What is he
doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library. Would my
Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.
But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to receive
him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will receive him
now. He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permis-
sion, while she is at table. When they are alone, my Lady waves her
hand to dispense with such mockeries.
“What do you want, sir?”
“Why, Lady Dedlock,” says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up
and down, up and down, “I am rather surprised by the course you
have taken.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure
from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position,
Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I don’t
approve of it.”
He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an inde-
finable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman’s observation.
“I do not quite understand you.”
“Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady Dedlock,
we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl.”
“Well, sir?”
“And you know—and I know—that you have not sent her away
for the reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating
her as much as possible from—excuse my mentioning it as a matter
of business—any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself.”
“Well, sir?”
“Well, Lady Dedlock,” returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and nurs-
ing the uppermost knee. “I object to that. I consider that a dangerous
proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated to awaken specu-

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lation, doubt, rumour, I don’t know what, in the house. Besides, it is a

violation of our agreement. You were to be exactly what you were
before. Whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it is to me, that you
have been this evening very different from what you were before. Why,
bless my soul, Lady Dedlock, transparenfly so!”
“If, sir,” she begins, “in my knowledge of my secret—” But he
interrupts her.
“Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter
of business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer your
secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my secret, in trust for
Sir Leicester and the family. If it were your secret, Lady Dedlock, we
should not be here holding this conversation.”
“That is very true. If in my knowledge of the secret I do what I can
to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own refer-
ence to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at Chesney
Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a resolu-
tion I have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the world,
could shake it or could move me.” This she says with great delibera-
tion and distinctness and with no more outward passion than him-
self. As for him, he methodically discusses his matter of
business as if she were any insensible instrument used in business.
“Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock,” he returns, “you are not to
be trusted. You have put the case in a perfecfly plain way, and according
to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not to be trusted.”
“Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this
same point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?”
“Yes,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on
the hearth. “Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly re-
ferred to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement,
and both the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether pre-
cluded any action on your part founded upon my discovery. There
can be no doubt about that. As to sparing the girl, of what impor-
tance or value is she? Spare! Lady Dedlock, here is a family name
compromised. One might have supposed that the course was straight
on—over everything, neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of
all considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything
under foot.”

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She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks at
him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower lip
is compressed under her teeth. “This woman understands me,” Mr.
Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. “She cannot be
spared. Why should she spare others?”
For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no dinner,
but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and
drunk it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in
it, shading her face. There is nothing in her manner to express weak-
ness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated.
“This woman,” thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again
a dark object closing up her view, “is a study.”
He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too studies
something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak, appearing indeed so
unlikely to be so, though he stood there until midnight, that even he is
driven upon breaking silence.
“Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business inter-
view remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A lady of
your sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now
declaring it void and taking my own course.”
“I am quite prepared.”
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. “That is all I have to trouble
you with, Lady Dedlock.”
She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, “This is
the notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you.”
“Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, be-
cause the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been
observed. But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is
merely in a lawyer’s mind.”
“You intend to give me no other notice?”
“You are right. No.”
“Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?”
“A home question!” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. “No, not to-night.”
“To-morrow?”
“All things considered, I had better decline answering that
question, Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don’t know when,

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exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose.
It may be to-morrow. I would rather say no more. You are prepared,
and I hold out no expectations which circumstances might fail to
justify. I wish you good evening.”
She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open it.
“Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?”
“Only for my hat. I am going home.”
She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight
and curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his
watch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is
a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not
often are, for its accuracy. “And what do you say,” Mr. Tulkinghorn
inquires, referring to it. “What do you say?”
If it said now, “Don’t go home!” What a famous clock, hereafter,
if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this old
man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it,
“Don’t go home!” With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters
after seven and ticks on again. “Why, you are worse than I thought
you,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. “Two
minutes wrong? At this rate you won’t last my time.” What a watch
to return good for evil if it ticked in answer, “Don’t go home!”
He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind
him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,
difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured up within
his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the confidence of the very bricks
and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family secrets to him.
Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to whisper, “Don’t go home!”
Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through
the roar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the
blazing shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on,
and the crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way,
and nothing meets him murmuring, “Don’t go home!” Arrived at
last in his dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and
see the Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance
in the Roman’s hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups

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to give him the late warning, “Don’t come here!”

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are shining
as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This woman,
as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon
them. Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and rest-
less. The large rooms are too cramped and close. She cannot endure
their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.
Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of
much surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman,
loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury attends with
the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his
Lady’s hands at her request and is bidden to go back. She will walk
there some time to ease her aching head. She may be an hour, she
may be more. She needs no further escort. The gate shuts upon its
spring with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade
of some trees.
A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting
those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. He looks
up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large moon,
what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.
A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, a soli-
tude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded
places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads and
on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in
repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees
against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only
is it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the
water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among
pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only
does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping
make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements
through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed
ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds,
rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with

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the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and on
the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only
him; but even on this stranger’s wilderness of London there is some
rest. Its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more ethe-
real; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale effulgence;
the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are softened, and
the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away. In these
fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s inhabiting, where the shepherds play on
Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their sheep in the fold by
hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close, every
noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringing hum, as
if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.
What’s that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?
The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Some
windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It was
a loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house, or
so a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in the
neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper across
the road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling—there is one
dog howling like a demon—the church-clocks, as if they were startled
too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to
swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last clock begins to
strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased, the fine night, the bright
large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace again.
Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and
quiet, and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed to
bring him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen
of him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old
man out of his immovable composure?
For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no
particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has any
new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing—
like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no
doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night
long. Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, ea-
gerly pointing, and no one minds him.

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But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not
expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that
person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one looked,
shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.
What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened cham-
ber, and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but
heavily, carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is
whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, care-
ful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every
article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices
murmur, “If he could only tell what he saw!”
He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon
after being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain
upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand.
These objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination
might suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to
drive the rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged
boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too—in short, the very
body and soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has—stark mad. It
happens surely that every one who comes into the darkened room
and looks at these things looks up at the Roman and that he is in-
vested in all eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed
dumb witness.
So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be covered,
so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the ceiling
shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him, with far
greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn’s time, and
with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn’s time is over for ever-
more, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against
his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to morning, lying
face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.

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CHAPTER XLIX

Dutiful Friendship
A GREAT ANNUAL OCCASION has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration of a
birthday in the family.
It is not Mr. Bagnet’s birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes
that epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children
with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe
after dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old
mother is thinking about it—a subject of infinite speculation, and
rendered so by his mother having departed this life twenty years.
Some men rarely revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books
of their remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affec-
tion into their mother’s name. Mr. Bagnet is one of like his trade the
better for that. If I had kept clear of his old girl causes him usually to
make the noun-substantive “goodness” of the feminine gender.
It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those
occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely
overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young
Woolwich’s last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing
on his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment of
profound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine
him in the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the ques-
tions number one and two, “What is your name?” and “Who gave
you that name?” but there failing in the exact precision of his memory
and substituting for number three the question “And how do you
like that name?” which he propounded with a sense of its impor-

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tance, in itself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an ortho-

dox air. This, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday,
and not a general solemnity.
It is the old girl’s birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet’s calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and pre-
scribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply
convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the
highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very
early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably,
taken in by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs
of toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not illustri-
ous for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state
rather than enjoyment on the old girl’s part, but she keeps her state
with all imaginable cheerfulness.
On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff, to
be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.
Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serv-
ing, as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To
these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a
shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.
“At half after one.” Says Mr. Bagnet. “To the minute. They’ll be done.”
Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill

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before the fire and beginning to burn.

“You shall have a dinner, old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Fit for a queen.”
Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the percep-
tion of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is im-
pelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of
the fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of the
agitation in Mrs. Bagnet’s breast and with an admonitory poke re-
calls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.
“George will look us up,” says Mr. Bagnet. “At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up.
This afternoon?”
“Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young
one, I begin to think. Just about that, and no less,” returns Mrs.
Bagnet, laughing and shaking her head.
“Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet, “never mind. You’d be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn’t younger. Which you are. As everybody knows.”
Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that
Bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate
on what it will be.
“Do you know, Lignum,” says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on
the table-cloth, and winking “salt!” at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, “I begin to
think George is in the roving way again.
“George,” returns Mr. Bagnet, “will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don’t be afraid of it.”
“No, Lignum. No. I don’t say he will. I don’t think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be off.”
Mr. Bagnet asks why.
“Well,” returns his wife, considering, “George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don’t say but what he’s as
free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn’t be George, but
he smarts and seems put out.”
“He’s extra-drilled,” says Mr. Bagnet. “By a lawyer. Who would
put the devil out.”

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“There’s something in that,” his wife assents; “but so it is, Lignum.”

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity under
which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of his
mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry humour of
the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made gravy acquir-
ing no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion. With a similar
perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process of peeling,
upheaving from their centres in every direction, as if they were subject
to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could be
desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming these disadvantages to the
best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table,
Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest’s place at his right hand.
It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, for
two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings.
Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their breasts and bodies,
as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their legs are so hard as to
encourage the idea that they must have devoted the greater part of
their long and arduous lives to pedestrian exercises and the walking
of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets
his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delica-
cies before her; and as that good old girl would not cause him a
moment’s disappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for
any consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young
Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent,
his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.
The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of
the repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply them-
selves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of their
mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens, inspire
the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present.
The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering of crock-
ery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an expenditure
of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the young ladies them-

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selves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon
with the calmness proper to her position. At last the various cleans-
ing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear
in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to
drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace
of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.
When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are
very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, “George! Military time.”
It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. “Happy returns to all!” says Mr. George.
“But, George, old man!” cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him
curiously. “What’s come to you?”
“Come to me?”
“Ah! You are so white, George—for you—and look so shocked.
Now don’t he, Lignum?”
“George,” says Mr. Bagnet, “tell the old girl. What’s the matter.”
“I didn’t know I looked white,” says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, “and I didn’t know I looked shocked, and I’m sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.”
“Poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother’s pity. “Is he gone?
Dear, dear!”
“I didn’t mean to say anything about it, for it’s not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute,” says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, “but you’re so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.”
“You’re right. The old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet. “Is as quick. As powder.”
“And what’s more, she’s the subject of the day, and we’ll stick to
her,” cries Mr. George. “See here, I have brought a little brooch along
with me. It’s a poor thing, you know, but it’s a keepsake. That’s all
the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet.”
Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. “Old girl,” says Mr. Bagnet.
“Tell him my opinion of it.”

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“Why, it’s a wonder, George!” Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. “It’s the

beautifullest thing that ever was seen!”
“Good!” says Mr. Bagnet. “My opinion.”
“It’s so pretty, George,” cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm’s length, “that it seems too choice for me.”
“Bad!” says Mr. Bagnet. “Not my opinlon.”
“But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,” says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; “and though I have been a crossgrained soldier’s wife to
you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in reality,
as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if
you will, George.”
The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over
young Woolwich’s head to see it done with an interest so maturely
wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laugh-
ing in her airy way and saying, “Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a pre-
cious old chap you are!” But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch.
His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. “Would any one
believe this?” says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. “I am
so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!”
Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like
a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. “If that don’t bring you round, George,” says she,
“just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together must do it.”
“You ought to do it of yourself,” George answers; “I know that
very well, Mrs. Bagnet. I’ll tell you how, one way and another, the
blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. ’Twas
dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him.”
“What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him
under your roof.”
“I helped him so far, but that’s little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,
there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more
than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone
to be helped out of that.”
“Ah, poor creetur!” says Mrs. Bagnet.

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“Then,” says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, “that brought up Gridley in a man’s mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed
up in a man’s mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both.
And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on
end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly—it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you.”
“My advice to you,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, “is to light your pipe
and tingle that way. It’s wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for
the health altogether.”
“You’re right,” says the trooper, “and I’ll do it.”
So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the cer-
emony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet’s health, always given by himself on
these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young
ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling
“the mixtur,” and George’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet
considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He ad-
dresses the assembled company in the following terms.
“George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a
day’s march. And you won’t find such another. Here’s towards her!”
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model compo-
sition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!” which the old
girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regu-
lated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present
occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, “Here’s a man!”
Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man—a quick
keen man—and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remark-
able man.
“George,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”
“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr. George.
“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door. “I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the mu-
sical instruments in the shop-window—a friend of mine is in want of

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a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone—and I saw a party enjoying

themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn’t
be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George, at the present
moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma’am? And with you, gov-
ernor? And Lord,” says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, “here’s children
too! You may do anything with me if you only show me children.
Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who your father and
mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!”
Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr.
George and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. “You pretty dears,”
says Mr. Bucket, “give us another kiss; it’s the only thing I’m greedy
in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages
of these two, ma’am? I should put ‘em down at the figures of about
eight and ten.”
“You’re very near, sir,” says Mrs. Bagnet.
“I generally am near,” returns Mr. Bucket, “being so fond of chil-
dren. A friend of mine has had nineteen of ‘em, ma’am, all by one
mother, and she’s still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?” pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta’s
cheeks. “These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket’s friend, my
dear? My name’s Bucket. Ain’t that a funny name?”
These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs.
Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for
Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to
receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells
him that as a friend of George’s she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.
“Not in his usual spirits?” exclaims Mr. Bucket. “Why, I never
heard of such a thing! What’s the matter, George? You don’t intend
to tell me you’ve been out of spirits. What should you be out of
spirits for? You haven’t got anything on your mind, you know.”
“Nothing particular,” returns the trooper.
“I should think not,” rejoins Mr. Bucket. “What could you have
on your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on their

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minds, eh? Not they, but they’ll be upon the minds of some of the
young fellows, some of these days, and make ‘em precious low-spir-
ited. I ain’t much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his
own.
“There, ma’am!” says Mr. Bucket. “Would you believe it? No, I
haven’t. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is
as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have ‘em, but no. So
it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma’am! Any way out of that yard, now?”
There is no way out of that yard.
“Ain’t there really?” says Mr. Bucket. “I should have thought
there might have been. Well, I don’t know as I ever saw a backyard
that took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank
you. No, I see there’s no way out. But what a very good-propor-
tioned yard it is!”
Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.
“How are your spirits now, George?”
“All right now,” returns the trooper.
“That’s your sort!” says Mr. Bucket. “Why should you ever have
been otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no
right to be out of spirits. That ain’t a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma’am? And you haven’t got anything on your mind, you know,
George; what could you have on your mind!”
Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and vari-
ety of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats
it to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly his
own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief eclipse
and shines again.
“And this is brother, is it, my dears?” says Mr. Bucket, referring
to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young
Woolwich. “And a nice brother he is—half-brother I mean to say.
For he’s too old to be your boy, ma’am.”
“I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else’s,”
returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

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“Well, you do surprise me! Yet he’s like you, there’s no denying.
Lord, he’s wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, there his father comes out!” Mr. Bucket compares
the faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.
This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the
boy is George’s godson.
“George’s godson, is he?” rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme
cordiality. “I must shake hands over again with George’s godson.
Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what do you
intend to make of him, ma’am? Does he show any turn for any
musical instrument?”
Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, “Plays the fife. Beautiful.”
“Would you believe it, governor,” says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, “that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you! ‘Brit-
ish Grenadiers’—there’s a tune to warm an Englishman up! could
you give us ‘British Grenadiers,’ my fine fellow?”
Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and per-
forms the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket,
much enlivened, beats time and never falls to come in sharp with the
burden, “British Gra-a-anadeers!” In short, he shows so much musi-
cal taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to ex-
press his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the har-
monious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them “Believe Me, if All Those Endearing
Young Charms.” This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers
to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs.
Bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar—Mr.
Bucket’s own words are “to come up to the scratch.”
This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of plea-
sure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of

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him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to

get on with, that it is something to have made him known there.
Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of
his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the
old girl’s next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family,
it is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for
that day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum
of the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes
a hope that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become,
in a manner, sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without
private ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in
that sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.
It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, should
remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever
the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He
waits to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking cross-
legged in the chimney-corner.
At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr.
Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes
upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he has
undertaken for an absent friend.
“Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor—could you
recommend me such a thing?”
“Scores,” says Mr. Bagnet.
“I am obliged to you,” returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
“You’re a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn’t,”
says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, “you needn’t com-
mit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don’t want to pay too
large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper per-
centage and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair.

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Every man must live, and ought to it.”

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.
“Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-
morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?” says Mr. Bucket.
Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the req-
uisite information ready and even hint to each other at the practica-
bility of having a small stock collected there for approval.
“Thank you,” says Mr. Bucket, “thank you. Good night, ma’am.
Good night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to
you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.”
They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expres-
sions of goodwill on both sides. “Now George, old boy,” says Mr.
Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, “come along!” As they go
down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after
them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket
“almost clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him.”
The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, “Wait half
a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first.” Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.
“Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, “duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have en-
deavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
George.”
“Custody? What for?” returns the trooper, thunderstruck.
“Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the
case upon him with his fat forefinger, “duty, as you know very well,
is one thing, and conversation is another. It’s my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don’t happen

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to have heard of a murder?”

“Murder!”
“Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an im-
pressive state of action, “bear in mind what I’ve said to you. I ask you
nothing. You’ve been in low spirits this afternoon. I say, you don’t
happen to have heard of a murder?”
“No. Where has there been a murder?”
“Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, “don’t you go and commit your-
self. I’m a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a
murder in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—gentleman of the name of
Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that.”
The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start
out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.
“Bucket! It’s not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed
and that you suspect me?”
“George,” returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, “it is cer-
tainly possible, because it’s the case. This deed was done last night at ten
o’clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten o’clock, and
you’ll be able to prove it, no doubt.”
“Last night! Last night?” repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. “Why, great heaven, I was there last night!”
“So I have understood, George,” returns Mr. Bucket with great de-
liberation. “So I have understood. Likewise you’ve been very often
there. You’ve been seen hanging about the place, and you’ve been heard
more than once in a wrangle with him, and it’s possible—I don’t say
it’s certainly so, mind you, but it’s possible—that he may have been
heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow.”
The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.
“Now, George,” continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the
table with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than other-
wise, “my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleas-
ant. I tell you plainly there’s a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if that
hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as any
other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear to
you that I must have you, and that I’m damned if I don’t have you.

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Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?”

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
“Come,” he says; “I am ready.”
“George,” continues Mr. Bucket, “wait a bit!” With his uphol-
sterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he
takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. “This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty.”
The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out
his two hands, clasped together, and says, “There! Put them on!”
Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. “How do you find them?
Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as
pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I’ve got another pair in my
pocket.” This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anx-
ious to execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. “They’ll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see, George”—
he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about the trooper’s
neck—”I was mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought
this on purpose. There! Who’s the wiser?”
“Only I,” returns the trooper, “but as I know it, do me one more
good turn and pull my hat over my eyes.”
“Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain’t it a pity? It looks so.”
“I can’t look chance men in the face with these things on,” Mr.
George hurriedly replies. “Do, for God’s sake, pull my hat forward.”
So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on,
and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

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CHAPTER L

Esther’s Narrative
IT HAPPENED THAT WHEN I came home from Deal I found a note
from Caddy Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing
me that her health, which had been for some time very delicate, was
worse and that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I
would go to see her. It was a note of a few lines, written from the
couch on which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her
husband, in which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude.
Caddy was now the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poor
little baby—such a tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed
to be scarcely anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fin-
gered hand, always clenched under its chin. It would lie in this atti-
tude all day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used
to imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was
moved it cried, but at all other times it was so patient that the sole
desire of its life appeared to be to lie quiet and think. It had curious
little dark veins in its face and curious little dark marks under its eyes
like faint remembrances of poor Caddy’s inky days, and altogether,
to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous little sight.
But it was enough for Caddy that she was used to it. The projects
with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther’s education, and
little Esther’s marriage, and even for her own old age as the grand-
mother of little Esther’s little Esthers, was so prettily expressive of
devotion to this pride of her life that I should be tempted to recall
some of them but for the timely remembrance that I am getting on
irregularly as it is.
To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me which
had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago
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when she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost—I
think I must say quite—believed that I did her good whenever I was
near her. Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl’s
that I am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the
force of a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set off to Caddy,
with my guardian’s consent, post-haste; and she and Prince made so
much of me that there never was anything like it.
Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again. It
was a very easy journey, for I had only to rise a little earlier in the
morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping mat-
ters before leaving home.
But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me,
on my return at night, “Now, little woman, little woman, this will
never do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant
coaching will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a
while and take possession of our old lodgings.”
“Not for me, dear guardian,” said I, “for I never feel tired,” which
was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.
“For me then,” returned my guardian, “or for Ada, or for both of
us. It is somebody’s birthday to-morrow, I think.”
“Truly I think it is,” said I, kissing my darling, who would be
twenty-one to-morrow.
“Well,” observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously, “that’s
a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some necessary business
to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make London a
more convenient place for all of us. So to London we will go. That
being settled, there is another thing—how have you left Caddy?”
“Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before she re-
gains her health and strength.”
“What do you call some time, now?” asked my guardian thought-
fully.
“Some weeks, I am afraid.”
“Ah!” He began to walk about the room with his hands in his
pockets, showing that he had been thinking as much. “Now, what
do you say about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?”
I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary but
that Prince and I had agreed only that evening that we would like his

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opinion to be confirmed by some one.

“Well, you know,” returned my guardian quickly, “there’s
Woodcourt.”
I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For a mo-
ment all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Woodcourt
seemed to come back and confuse me.
“You don’t object to him, little woman?”
“Object to him, guardian? Oh no!”
“And you don’t think the patient would object to him?”
So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have a
great reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that he was
no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind
attendance on Miss Flite.
“Very good,” said my guardian. “He has been here to-day, my dear,
and I will see him about it to-morrow.”
I felt in this short conversation—though I did not know how, for
she was quiet, and we interchanged no look—that my dear girl well
remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when
no other hands than Caddy’s had brought me the little parting token.
This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Caddy too, that I
was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if I avoided that
disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in my own eyes of
its master’s love. Therefore, when we went upstairs and had waited
listening until the clock struck twelve in order that only I might be the
first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday and to take her
to my heart, I set before her, just as I had set before myself, the good-
ness and honour of her cousin John and the happy life that was in store
for for me. If ever my darling were fonder of me at one time than
another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest of me that night.
And I was so rejoiced to know it and so comforted by the sense of
having done right in casting this last idle reservation away that I was ten
times happier than I had been before. I had scarcely thought it a reser-
vation a few hours ago, but now that it was gone I felt as if I under-
stood its nature better.
Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant,
and in half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never
gone away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling’s

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birthday, and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank

among us that Richard’s absence naturally made on such an occasion.
After that day I was for some weeks—eight or nine as I remember—
very much with Caddy, and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this
time than any other since we had first come together, except the time
of my own illness. She often came to Caddy’s, but our function there
was to amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confiden-
tial manner. Whenever I went home at night we were together, but
Caddy’s rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her.
With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and
their home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was! So self-
denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account,
so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours
of her husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; I had never
known the best of her until now. And it seemed so curious that her
pale face and helpless figure should be lying there day after day where
dancing was the business of life, where the kit and the apprentices
began early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy
little boy waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.
At Caddy’s request I took the supreme direction of her apartment,
trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more
airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every
day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay my small small
namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or read to her. It
was at one of the first of these quiet times that I told Caddy about
Bleak House.
We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Prince, who
in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit
softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the very
little child. Whatever Caddy’s condition really was, she never failed
to declare to Prince that she was all but well—which I, heaven for-
give me, never failed to confirm. This would put Prince in such
good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket
and play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which I never knew it
to do in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all.
Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally, with
her usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her

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grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young Borrioboolan

on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as untidy, she
would say, “Well, Caddy, child, and how do you do to-day?” And then
would sit amiably smiling and taking no notice of the reply or would
sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number of letters she had
lately received and answered or of the coffee-bearing power of
Borrioboola-Gha. This she would always do with a serene contempt
for our limited sphere of action, not to be disguised.
Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to
night and from night to morning the subject of innumerable precau-
tions. If the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make
him uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was
surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy required
any little comfort that the house contained, she first carefully discussed
whether he was likely to require it too. In return for this consideration
he would come into the room once a day, all but blessing it—showing
a condescension, and a patronage, and a grace of manner in dispensing
the light of his high-shouldered presence from which I might have
supposed him (if I had not known better) to have been the benefactor
of Caddy’s life.
“My Caroline,” he would say, making the nearest approach that he
could to bending over her. “Tell me that you are better to-day.”
“Oh, much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop,” Caddy would
reply.
“Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson. She is
not qulte prostrated by fatigue?” Here he would crease up his eyelids
and kiss his fingers to me, though I am happy to say he had ceased to
be particular in his attentions since I had been so altered.
“Not at all,” I would assure him.
“Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Summerson.
We must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her. My
dear Caroline”—he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite gen-
erosity and protection—”want for nothing, my love. Frame a wish and
gratify it, my daughter. Everything this house contains, everything my
room contains, is at your service, my dear. Do not,” he would some-
times add in a burst of deportment, “even allow my simple requirements
to be considered if they should at any time interfere with your own, my

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Caroline. Your necessities are greater than mine.”

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this deport-
ment (his son’s inheritance from his mother) that I several times knew
both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these affec-
tionate self-sacrifices.
“Nay, my dears,” he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy’s
thin arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too,
though not by the same process. “Nay, nay! I have promised never to
leave ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask no other
return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park.”
He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his
hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong, but I never
saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, except that
he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy and would take the child
out walking with great pomp, always on those occasions sending
him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a
halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness was attended
with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, for before Peepy was
sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of
deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of Caddy
and her husband, from top to toe.
Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he used to
come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how she was,
and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt
to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he found me bustling
about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as if
with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got any
further. His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the wall,
looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite divest my
mind of a fancy that they understood one another.
I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he
was now Caddy’s regular attendant. She soon began to improve un-
der his care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the
pains he took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a good
deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as
might be supposed, for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I
often slipped home at about the hours when he was expected. We

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frequently met, notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself

now, but I still felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still
was sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his professional
engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects
for the future.
It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a change
in my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me, be-
cause I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing in
themselves and only became something when they were pieced to-
gether. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was
not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her tenderness for
me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that;
but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to
me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.
Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for the
happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set
me thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this
something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came
into my head that she was a little grieved—for me—by what I had
told her about Bleak House.
How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don’t know. I had
no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was not
grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy. Still, that
Ada might be thinking—for me, though I had abandoned all such
thoughts—of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so
easy to believe that I believed it.
What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and
show her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk
and busy as possible, and that I had tried to be all along. However, as
Caddy’s illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home
duties—though I had always been there in the morning to make my
guardian’s breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed and said
there must be two little women, for his little woman was never miss-
ing—I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went about the
house humming all the tunes I knew, and I sat working and
working in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning,
noon, and night.

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And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.
“So, Dame Trot,” observed my guardian, shutting up his book
one night when we were all three together, “so Woodcourt has re-
stored Caddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?”
“Yes,” I said; “and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be
made rich, guardian.”
“I wish it was,” he returned, “with all my heart.”
So did I too, for that matter. I said so.
“Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would
we not, little woman?”
I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that,
for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there
might be many who could ill spare him. As Miss Flite, and Caddy
herself, and many others.
“True,” said my guardian. “I had forgotten that. But we would
agree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to
work with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own
happy home and his own household gods—and household goddess,
too, perhaps?”
That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.
“To be sure,” said my guardian. “All of us. I have a great regard for
Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him
delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an independent
man with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And yet I would
be glad to do it if I might or if I knew how. He seems half inclined for
another voyage. But that appears like casting such a man away.”
“It might open a new world to him,” said I.
‘’So it might, little woman,” my guardian assented. ‘’I doubt if he
expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he
sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune en-
countered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?”
I shook my head.
“Humph,” said my guardian. “I am mistaken, I dare say.” As there
was a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl’s satisfac-
tion, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked which was
a favourite with my guardian.
“And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?” I

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asked him when I had hummed it quietly all through.

“I don’t quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it
was likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country.”
“I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him
wherever he goes,” said I; “and though they are not riches, he will
never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least.”
“Never, little woman,” he replied.
I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian’s
chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was
now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw, as she
looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears were
falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and merry
once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at rest. I
really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.
So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder—how little think-
ing what was heavy on her mind!—and I said she was not quite well,
and put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in
our own room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I
was so unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in
me; I never thought she stood in need of it.
“Oh, my dear good Esther,” said Ada, “if I could only make up
my mind to speak to you and my cousin John when you are to-
gether!”
“Why, my love!” I remonstrated. “Ada, why should you not speak
to us!”
Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.
“You surely don’t forget, my beauty,” said I, smiling, “what quiet,
old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the
discreetest of dames? You don’t forget how happily and peacefully
my life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that you
don’t forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never be.”
“No, never, Esther.”
“Why then, my dear,” said I, “there can be nothing amiss—and
why should you not speak to us?”
“Nothing amiss, Esther?” returned Ada. “Oh, when I think of all
these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old
relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!”

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I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not

to answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off into
many little recollections of our life together and prevented her from
saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned
to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back to Ada and
sat near her for a little while.
She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a little
changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I could not decide,
even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was changed,
but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked different to
me. My guardian’s old hopes of her and Richard arose sorrowfully in
my mind, and I said to myself, “She has been anxious about him,”
and I wondered how that love would end.
When I had come home from Caddy’s while she was ill, I had
often found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and
I had never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near
her, which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer, but I still
rather wondered what the work could he, for it was evidently noth-
ing for herself.
And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under
her pillow so that it was hidden.
How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me,
how much less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied
with my own cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only
rested with me to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!
But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in it next
day to find that there was still the same shade between me and my
darling.

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CHAPTER LI

Enlightened
WHEN MR. WOODCOURT ARRIVED in London, he went, that very
same day, to Mr. Vholes’s in Symond’s Inn. For he never once, from
the moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, ne-
glected or forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the
charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.
He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of
his agreement with Richard that he should call there to learn his
address.
“Just so, sir,” said Mr. Vholes. “Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred
miles from here, sir, Mr. C.’s address is not a hundred miles from
here. Would you take a seat, sir?”
Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with
him beyond what he had mentioned.
“Just so, sir. I believe, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, still quietly insisting
on the seat by not giving the address, “that you have influence with
Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.”
“I was not aware of it myself,” returned Mr. Woodcourt; “but I
suppose you know best.”
“Sir,” rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained as usual, voice and all,
“it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part of my
professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who con-
fides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be want-
ing, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be wanting in it
without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir.”
Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.
“Give me leave, sir,” said Mr. Vholes. “Bear with me for a mo-

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ment. Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play
without—need I say what?”
“Money, I presume?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Vholes, “to be honest with you (honesty being my
golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I generally
lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr. C.’s game
I express to you no opinion, no opinion. It might be highly impolitic
in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to leave off; it might be
the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand
flat down upon his desk in a positive manner, “nothing.”
“You seem to forget,” returned Mr, Woodcourt, “that I ask you to
say nothing and have no interest in anything you say.”
“Pardon me, sir!” retorted Mr. Vholes. “You do yourself an injus-
tice. No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not—shall not in my office, if I
know it—do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything,
and in everything, that relates to your friend. I know human nature
much better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of
your appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Woodcourt, “that may be. I am particularly
interested in his address.”
“The number, sir,” said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, “I believe I
have already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this
considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There
are funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds in
hand. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided, unless
Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured, which is wholly
and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I take the opportu-
nity of stating openly to you as the friend of Mr. C. Without funds
I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C. to the extent of
all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate, not beyond
that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one. I
must either wrong my three dear girls or my venerable father, who is
entirely dependent on me, in the Vale of Taunton; or some one.
Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly if you please)
to wrong no one.”
Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.
“I wish, sir,” said Mr. Vholes, “to leave a good name behind me.

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Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of

Mr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is
worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, I
do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose. My name is
painted on the door outside, with that object.”
“And Mr. Carstone’s address, Mr. Vholes?”
“Sir,” returned Mr. Vholes, “as I believe I have already mentioned,
it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.’s apart-
ments. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser, and I am far
from objecting, for I court inquiry.”
Upon this Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went
in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began to
understand now but too well.
He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had
found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that
he was not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from
which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to
be standing open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some mo-
ments without being perceived, and he told me that he never could
forget the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner
before he was aroused from his dream.
“Woodcourt, my dear fellow,” cried Richard, starting up with ex-
tended hands, “you come upon my vision like a ghost.”
“A friendly one,” he replied, “and only waiting, as they say ghosts
do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?” They were
seated now, near together.
“Badly enough, and slowly enough,” said Richard, “speaking at
least for my part of it.”
“What part is that?”
“The Chancery part.”
“I never heard,” returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, “of its
going well yet.”
“Nor I,” said Richard moodily. “Who ever did?” He brightened
again in a moment and said with his natural openness, “Woodcourt,
I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it
in your estimation. You must know that I have done no good this
long time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have

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been capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have done bet-
ter by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me,
but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not
already heard, a very different opinion. To make short of
a long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object
now—or it has me—and it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am,
and make the best of me.”
“A bargain,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “Do as much by me in return.”
“Oh! You,” returned Richard, “you can pursue your art for its own
sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and
can strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different
creatures.”
He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary con-
dition.
“Well, well!” he cried, shaking it off. “Everything has an end. We
shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?”
“Aye! Indeed I will.” They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in
deep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart of hearts.
“You come as a godsend,” said Richard, “for I have seen nobody
here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to
mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You can
hardly make the best of me if I don’t. You know, I dare say, that I
have an attachment to my cousin Ada?”
Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. “Now
pray,” returned Richard, “don’t think me a heap of selfishness. Don’t
suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over
this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone.
Ada’s are bound up with mine; they can’t be separated; Vholes works
for both of us. Do think of that!”
He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave him
the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.
“You see,” said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner of
lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, “to an
upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, I
cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I want to see
Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to do my utmost
to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can scrape together to

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extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech you, think of that!”

Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had
passed, he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard’s
anxiety on this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to
Symond’s Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I had
had before that my dear girl’s little property would be absorbed by
Mr. Vholes and that Richard’s justification to himself would be sin-
cerely this. It was just as I began to take care of Caddy that the inter-
view took place, and I now return to the time when Caddy had
recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling.
I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Rich-
ard. It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so
radiantly willing as I had expected.
“My dear,” said I, “you have not had any difference with Richard
since I have been so much away?”
“No, Esther.”
“Not heard of him, perhaps?” said I.
“Yes, I have heard of him,” said Ada.
Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not make
my darling out. Should I go to Richard’s by myself? I said. No, Ada
thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go with me? Yes,
Ada thought she had better go with me. Should we go now? Yes, let
us go now. Well, I could not understand my darling, with the tears in
her eyes and the love in her face!
We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and
drops of chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourless days
when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned at us,
the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made any
compromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied my
beautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and I thought
there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than I
had ever seen before.
We had first to find out Symond’s Inn. We were going to inquire in
a shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. “We are
not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction,” said I. So
to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it written
up. Symond’s Inn.

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We had next to find out the number. “Or Mr. Vholes’s office will
do,” I recollected, “for Mr. Vholes’s office is next door.” Upon which
Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes’s office in the corner there.
And it really was.
Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was go-
ing for the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my
darling was right again. So up we went to the second story, when we
came to Richard’s name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.
I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn
the handle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a table
covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty
mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw the omi-
nous words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. “If you had
come a little earlier,” he said, “you would have found Woodcourt
here. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. He finds
time to look in between-whiles, when anybody else with half his
work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. And he
is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so—everything that I am
not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens when-
ever he goes again.”
“God bless him,” I thought, “for his truth to me!”
“He is not so sanguine, Ada,” continued Richard, casting his de-
jected look over the bundles of papers, “as Vholes and I are usually,
but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. We have gone
into them, and he has not. He can’t be expected to know much of
such a labyrinth.”
As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two
hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyes
appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all
bitten away.
“Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?” said I.
“Why, my dear Minerva,” answered Richard with his old gay laugh,
“it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun shines
here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining brightly in an
open spot. But it’s well enough for the time. It’s near the offices and
near Vholes.”

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“Perhaps,” I hinted, “a change from both—”

“Might do me good?” said Richard, forcing a laugh as he finished
the sentence. “I shouldn’t wonder! But it can only come in one way
now—in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suit must
be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, my dear girl,
the suit, my dear girl!”
These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearest
to him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, I
could not see it.
“We are doing very well,” pursued Richard. “Vholes will tell you
so. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giving them no
rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turnings, and we are upon
them everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shall rouse
up that nest of sleepers, mark my words!”
His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his de-
spondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fierce in
its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet so con-
scious of being forced and unsustainable that it had long touched me
to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indelibly written in
his handsome face made it far more distressing than it used to be. I
say indelibly, for I felt persuaded that if the fatal cause could have
been for ever terminated, according to his brightest visions, in that
same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, self-reproach, and
disappointment it had occasioned him would have remained upon
his features to the hour of his death.
“The sight of our dear little woman,” said Richard, Ada still re-
maining silent and quiet, “is so natural to me, and her
compassionate face is so like the face of old days—”
Ah! No, no. I smiled and shook my head.
“—So exactly like the face of old days,” said Richard in his cordial
voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard which nothing
ever changed, “that I can’t make pretences with her. I fluctuate a little;
that’s the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear, and sometimes I—
don’t quite despair, but nearly. I get,” said Richard, relinquishing my
hand gently and walking across the room, “so tired!”
He took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. “I get,”
he repeated gloomily, “so tired. It is such weary, weary work!”

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He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voice

and looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet,
kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight
on his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned her
face to me. Oh, what a loving and devoted face I saw!
“Esther, dear,” she said very quietly, “I am not going home again.”
A light shone in upon me all at once.
“Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We
have been married above two months. Go home without me, my
own Esther; I shall never go home any more!” With those words my
darling drew his head down on her breast and held it there. And if
ever in my life I saw a love that nothing but death could change, I
saw it then before me.
“Speak to Esther, my dearest,” said Richard, breaking the silence
presently. “Tell her how it was.”
I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms.
We neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wanted
to hear nothing. “My pet,” said I. “My love. My poor, poor girl!” I
pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richard, but the impulse that
I had upon me was to pity her so much.
“Esther, will you forgive me? Will my cousin John forgive me?”
“My dear,” said I, “to doubt it for a moment is to do him a great
wrong. And as to me!” Why, as to me, what had I to forgive!
I dried my sobbing darling’s eyes and sat beside her on the sofa,
and Richard sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of that
so different night when they had first taken me into their confidence
and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told me between
them how it was.
“All I had was Richard’s,” Ada said; “and Richard would not take
it, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved him
dearly!”
“And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame
Durden,” said Richard, “that how could we speak to you at such a
time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went out
one morning and were married.”
“And when it was done, Esther,” said my darling, “I was always
thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. And some-

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times I thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes I

thought you ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin John;
and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted very much.”
How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before!
I don’t know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fond of
them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them so much,
and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another. I never had
experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one time, and
in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But I was not
there to darken their way; I did not do that.
When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took her
wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then I
remembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriage
she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Ada
blushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Ada
how I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little
thought why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was all
over again, and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again,
and to hide my plain old face as much as I could lest I should put
them out of heart.
Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think
of returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, for then
my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck, call-
ing me by every dear name she could think of and saying what should
she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as for me, I
should have been the worst of the three if I had not severely said to
myself, “Now Esther, if you do, I’ll never speak to you again!”
“Why, I declare,” said I, “I never saw such a wife. I don’t think she
loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, for goodness’
sake.” But I held her tight all the while, and could have wept over her
I don’t know how long.
“I give this dear young couple notice,” said I, “that I am only going
away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming
backwards and forwards until Symond’s Inn is tired of the sight of
me. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be the use
of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!”
I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but I

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lingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to
rive my heart to turn from.
So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave me
some encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could take
that liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling
through her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands,
and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.
And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to
me that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank
without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope
of seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little while as I
walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.
I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach
home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had reap-
peared a short time before and was lying at the point of death; in-
deed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian had
gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being
quite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don’t think I
behaved so very, very ill.
It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the loss
of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time after years.
But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which I had
left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed stony-hearted one,
and I so longed to be near her and taking some sort of care of her, that I
determined to go back in the evening only to look up at her windows.
It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me, and
it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into my confi-
dence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to the new
strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the yellow
blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times, looking up, and
narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came out of his office
while we were there and turned his head to look up too before going
home. The sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air of that
nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind. I thought of
the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an ill-
assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.
It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I might

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safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up with a light
foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the
way. I listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence
of the house believed that I could hear the murmur of their young
voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss for
my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these
days I would confess to the visit.
And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I
knew anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the
separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again
for those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the
change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.
My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by
the dark window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his
seat, but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.
“Little woman,” said he, “You have been crying.”
“Why, yes, guardian,” said I, “I am afraid I have been, a little. Ada
has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.”
I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that
my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.
“Is she married, my dear?”
I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred to
his forgiveness.
“She has no need of it,” said he. “Heaven bless her and her hus-
band!” But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so was his.
“Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!”
Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, “Well,
well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.”
“But its mistress remains, guardian.” Though I was timid about
saying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had
spoken. “She will do all she can to make it happy,” said I.
“She will succeed, my love!”
The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat
by his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his
old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his
old way, and said again, “She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless,
Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!”

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I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was
rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I had
meant to be since the letter and the answer.

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CHAPTER LII

Obstinacy
BUT ONE OTHER DAY HAD INTERVENED when, early in the morning as
we were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the
astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which
Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he
told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for
the murderer’s apprehension, I did not in my first consternation un-
derstand why; but a few more words explained to me that the mur-
dered person was Sir Leicester’s lawyer, and immediately my mother’s
dread of him rushed into my remembrance.
This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long
watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted
her, one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness,
always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so
awful that my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of
such a death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember,
perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away who
was so swiftly hurried out of life!
Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I always
felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I could
scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to follow the
conversation until I had had a little time to recover. But when I came
to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that
they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every
favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we
had known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused
in his behalf that I was quite set up again.

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“Guardian, you don’t think it possible that he is justly accused?”

“My dear, I can’t think so. This man whom we have seen so open-
hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the
gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived and is
so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such a crime?
I can’t believe it. It’s not that I don’t or I won’t. I can’t!”
“And I can’t,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “Still, whatever we believe or
know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are
against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman.
He has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to have ex-
pressed himself violently towards him, and he certainly did about
him, to my knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene of
the murder within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerely be-
lieve him to be as innocent of any participation in it as I am, but
these are all reasons for suspicion falling upon him.”
“True,” said my guardian. And he added, turning to me, “It would
be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the
truth in any of these respects.”
I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but to
others, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I knew
withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not induce
us to desert him in his need.
“Heaven forbid!” returned my guardian. “We will stand by him, as he
himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone.” He meant Mr.
Gridley and the boy, to both of whom Mr. George had given shelter.
Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper’s man had been with
him before day, after wandering about the streets all night like a
distracted creature. That one of the trooper’s first anxieties was that
we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged his messen-
ger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn assurance be
could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quieted the man by
undertaking to come to our house very early in the morning with
these representations. He added that he was now upon his way to see
the prisoner himself.
My guardian said directly he would go too. Now, besides that I
liked the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, I had that
secret interest in what had happened which was only known to my

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guardian. I felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemed to be-

come personally important to myself that the truth should be dis-
covered and that no innocent people should be suspected, for suspi-
cion, once run wild, might run wilder.
In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with
them. My guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went.
It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one
another and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a new compre-
hension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary prisoners,
shut up among the same staring walls from year to year, have had—
as I have read—for a weed or a stray blade of grass. In an arched room
by himself, like a cellar upstairs, with walls so glaringly white that
they made the massive iron window-bars and iron-bound door even
more profoundly black than they were, we found the trooper stand-
ing in a corner. He had been sitting on a bench there and had risen
when he heard the locks and bolts turn.
When he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy tread,
and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still advanced, put-
ting out my hand to him, he understood us in a moment.
“This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen,”
said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a long breath.
“And now I don’t so much care how it ends.”
He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness and
his soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard.
“This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a lady in,”
said Mr. George, “but I know Miss Summerson will make the best
of it.” As he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting, I
sat down, which seemed to give him great satisfaction.
“I thank you, miss,” said he.
“Now, George,” observed my guardian, “as we require no new
assurances on your part, so I believe we need give you none on ours.”
“Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was not
innocent of this crime, I couldn’t look at you and keep my secret to
myself under the condescension of the present visit. I feel the present
visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but I feel it, Miss
Summerson and gentlemen, deeply.”
He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his

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bead to us. Although he squared himself again directly, he expressed

a great amount of natural emotion by these simple means.
“First,” said my guardian, “can we do anything for your personal
comfort, George?”
“For which, sir?” he inquired, clearing his throat.
“For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want that would
lessen the hardship of this confinement?”
“Well, sir,” replied George, after a little cogitation, “I am
equally obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, I
can’t say that there is.”
“You will think of many little things perhaps, by and by.
‘Whenever you do, George, let us know.”
“Thank you, sir. Howsoever,” observed Mr. George with one of
his sunburnt smiles, “a man who has been knocking about the world
in a vagabond kind of a way as long as I have gets on well enough in
a place like the present, so far as that goes.”
“Next, as to your case,” observed my guardian.
“Exactly so, sir,” returned Mr. George, folding his arms upon his
breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.
“How does it stand now?”
“Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me to under-
stand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from time
to time until the case is more complete. How it is to be made more
complete I don’t myself see, but I dare say Bucket will manage it
somehow.”
“Why, heaven save us, man,” exclaimed my guardian, surprised
into his old oddity and vehemence, “you talk of yourself as if you
were somebody else!”
“No offence, sir,” said Mr. George. “I am very sensible of your
kindness. But I don’t see how an innocent man is to make up his
mind to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the
walls unless he takes it in that point of view.
“That is true enough to a certain extent,” returned my guardian,
softened. “But my good fellow, even an innocent man must take
ordinary precautions to defend himself.”
“Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to the magistrates,
‘Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge as

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yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts is

perfectly true; I know no more about it.’ I intend to continue stating
that, sir. What more can I do? It’s the truth.”
“But the mere truth won’t do,” rejoined my guardian.
“Won’t it indeed., sir? Rather a bad look-out for me!” Mr. George
good-humouredly observed.
“You must have a lawyer,” pursued my guardian. “We must engage
a good one for you.”
“I ask your pardon, sir,” said Mr. George with a step backward. “I
am equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be excused from
anything of that sort.”
“You won’t have a lawyer?”
“No, sir.” Mr. George shook his head in the most emphatic man-
ner. “I thank you all the same, sir, but—no lawyer!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t take kindly to the breed,” said Mr. George. “Gridley didn’t.
And—if you’ll excuse my saying so much—I should hardly have
thought you did yourself, sir.”
“That’s equity,” my guardian explained, a little at a loss; “that’s
equity, George.”
“Is it, indeed, sir?” returned the trooper in his off-hand manner. “I
am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in a gen-
eral way I object to the breed.”
Unfolding his arms and changing his position, he stood with one
massive hand upon the table and the other on his hip, as complete a
picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose as
ever I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him and endeav-
oured to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness which went
so well with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no more shaken by
our representations that his place of confinement was.
“Pray think, once more, Mr. George,” said I. “Have you no wish
in reference to your case?”
“I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss,” he returned, “by court-
martial; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware. If you
will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a couple of
minutes, miss, not more, I’ll endeavour to explain myself as clearly
as I can.”

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He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if he

were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, and after
a moment’s reflection went on.
“You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody and
brought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here I am. My
shooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket; such property
as I have—’tis small—is turned this way and that till it don’t know
itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am! I don’t particular complain of that.
Though I am in these present quarters through no immediately pre-
ceding fault of mine, I can very well understand that if I hadn’t gone
into the vagabond way in my youth, this wouldn’t have happened. It
has happened. Then comes the question how to meet it.”
He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-
humoured look and said apologetically, “I am such a short-winded
talker that I must think a bit.” Having thought a bit, he looked up
again and resumed.
“How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a
lawyer and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don’t wish to rake up his
ashes, but he had, what I should call if he was living, a devil of a tight
hold of me. I don’t like his trade the better for that. If I had kept clear
of his trade, I should have kept outside this place. But that’s not
what I mean. Now, suppose I had killed him. Suppose I really had
discharged into his body any one of those pistols recently fired off
that Bucket has found at my place, and dear me, might have found
there any day since it has been my place. What should I have done as
soon as I was hard and fast here? Got a lawyer.”
He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did
not resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. For
what purpose opened, I will mention presently.
“I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I have
often read in the newspapers), ‘My client says nothing, my client
reserves his defence’: my client this, that, and t’other. Well, ’tis not
the custom of that breed to go straight, according to my opinion, or
to think that other men do. Say I am innocent and I get a lawyer. He
would be as likely to believe me guilty as not; perhaps more. What
would he do, whether or not? Act as if I was—shut my mouth up,
tell me not to commit myself, keep circumstances back, chop the

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evidence small, quibble, and get me off perhaps! But, Miss

Summerson, do I care for getting off in that way; or would I rather
be hanged in my own way—if you’ll excuse my mentioning any-
thing so disagreeable to a lady?”
He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further
necessity to wait a bit.
“I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be! I
don’t intend to say,” looking round upon us with his powerful arms
akimbo and his dark eyebrows raised, “that I am more partial to
being hanged than another man. What I say is, I must come off clear
and full or not at all. Therefore, when I hear stated against me what
is true, I say it’s true; and when they tell me, ‘whatever you say will be
used,’ I tell them I don’t mind that; I mean it to be used. If they can’t
make me innocent out of the whole truth, they are not likely to do it
out of anything less, or anything else. And if they are, it’s worth
nothing to me.”
Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to the
table and finished what he had to say.
“I thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for your at-
tention, and many times more for your interest. That’s the plain
state of the matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper with a
blunt broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in life
beyond my duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, I shall
reap pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the first crash of
being seized as a murderer—it don’t take a rover who has knocked
about so much as myself so very long to recover from a crash—I
worked my way round to what you find me now. As such I shall
remain. No relations will be disgraced by me or made unhappy for
me, and—and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man of
less prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned, bright-
eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, from her entrance, had been
exceedingly attentive to all Mr. George had said. Mr. George had received
them with a familiar nod and a friendly look, but without any more
particular greeting in the midst of his address. He now shook them cor-
dially by the hand and said, “Miss Summerson and gentlemen, this is an
old comrade of mine, Matthew Bagnet. And this is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet.”

730
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Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet dropped
us a curtsy.
“Real good friends of mine, they are,” sald Mr. George. “It was at
their house I was taken.”
“With a second-hand wiolinceller,” Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching
his head angrily. “Of a good tone. For a friend. That money was no
object to.”
“Mat,” said Mr. George, “you have heard pretty well all I have
been saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets
your approval?”
Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife. “Old
girl,” said he. “Tell him. Whether or not. It meets my approval.”
“Why, George,” exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking
her basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a little tea
and sugar, and a brown loaf, “you ought to know it don’t. You ought
to know it’s enough to drive a person wild to hear you. You won’t be
got off this way, and you won’t be got off that way—what do you
mean by such picking and choosing? It’s stuff and nonsense, George.”
“Don’t be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet,” said
the trooper lightly.
“Oh! Bother your misfortunes,” cried Mrs. Bagnet, “if they don’t
make you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was so ashamed
in my life to hear a man talk folly as I have been to hear you talk this
day to the present company. Lawyers? Why, what but too many
cooks should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if the gentle-
man recommended them to you?”
“This is a very sensible woman,” said my guardian. “I hope you
will persuade him, Mrs. Bagnet.”
“Persuade him, sir?” she returned. “Lord bless you, no. You don’t
know George. Now, there!” Mrs. Bagnet left her basket to point
him out with both her bare brown hands. “There he stands! As self-
willed and as determined a man, in the wrong way, as ever put a
human creature under heaven out of patience! You could as soon take
up and shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your own strength as
turn that man when he has got a thing into his head and fixed it
there. Why, don’t I know him!” cried Mrs. Bagnet. “Don’t I know
you, George! You don’t mean to set up for a new character with me

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after all these years, I hope?”

Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her hus-
band, who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silent
recommendation to him to yield. Between whiles, Mrs. Bagnet
looked at me; and I understood from the play of her eyes that she
wished me to do something, though I did not comprehend what.
“But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and years,”
said Mrs. Bagnet as she blew a little dust off the pickled pork, look-
ing at me again; “and when ladies and gentlemen know you as well as
I do, they’ll give up talking to you too. If you are not too headstrong
to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is.”
“I accept it with many thanks,” returned the trooper.
“Do you though, indeed?” said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to grumble
on good-humouredly. “I’m sure I’m surprised at that I wonder you
don’t starve in your own way also. It would only be like you. Perhaps
you’ll set your mind upon that next.” Here she again looked at me,
and I now perceived from her glances at the door and at me, by
turns, that she wished us to retire and to await her following us out-
side the prison. Communicating this by similar means to my guard-
ian and Mr. Woodcourt, I rose.
“We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George,” said I, “and we
shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more reasonable.”
“More grateful, Miss Summerson, you can’t find me,” he returned.
“But more persuadable we can, I hope,” said I. “And let me entreat
you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and the discovery
of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the last importance to
others besides yourself.”
He heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words,
which I spoke a little turned from him, already on my way to the
door; he was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height and
figure, which seemed to catch his attention all at once.
“’Tis curious,” said he. “And yet I thought so at the time!”
My guardian asked him what he meant.
“Why, sir,” he answered, “when my ill fortune took me to the
dead man’s staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so like
Miss Summerson’s go by me in the dark that I had half a mind to
speak to it.”

732
 Dickens

For an instant I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or

since and hope I shall never feel again.
“It came downstairs as I went up,” said the trooper, “and crossed
the moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; I noticed a
deep fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with the present
subject, excepting that Miss Summerson looked so like it at the
moment that it came into my head.”
I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after this;
it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had felt upon me
from the first of following the investigation was, without my dis-
tinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased, and that I was
indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a reason for my
being afraid.
We three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some
short distance from the gate, which was in a retired place. We had
not waited long when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too and quickly
joined us.
There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet’s eyes, and her face was
flushed and hurried. “I didn’t let George see what I thought about it,
you know, miss,” was her first remark when she came up, “but he’s
in a bad way, poor old fellow!”
“Not with care and prudence and good help,” said my guardian.
“A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir,” returned Mrs.
Bagnet, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak, “but
I am uneasy for him. He has been so careless and said so much that
he never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might not understand
him as Lignum and me do. And then such a number of circum-
stances have happened bad for him, and such a number of people
will be brought forward to speak against him, and Bucket is so deep.”
“With a second-hand wiolinceller. And said he played the fife.
When a boy,” Mr. Bagnet added with great solemnity.
“Now, I tell you, miss,” said Mrs. Bagnet; “and when I say miss, I
mean all! Just come into the corner of the wall and I’ll tell you!”
Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at first
too breathless to proceed, occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say, “Old girl!
Tell ‘em!”
“Why, then, miss,” the old girl proceeded, untying the strings of
her bonnet for more air, “you could as soon move Dover Castle as
733
Bleak House

move George on this point unless you had got a new power to move
him with. And I have got it!”
“You are a jewel of a woman,” said my guardian. “Go on!”
“Now, I tell you, miss,” she proceeded, clapping her hands in her
hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, “that what he says
concerning no relations is all bosh. They don’t know of him, but he does
know of them. He has said more to me at odd times than to anybody
else, and it warn’t for nothing that he once spoke to my Woolwich about
whitening and wrinkling mothers’ heads. For fifty pounds he had seen
his mother that day. She’s alive and must be brought here straight!”
Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth and began
pinning up her skirts all round a little higher than the level of her
grey cloak, which she accomplished with surpassing dispatch and
dexterity.
“Lignum,” said Mrs. Bagnet, “you take care of the children, old
man, and give me the umbrella! I’m away to Lincolnshire to bring
that old lady here.”
“But, bless the woman,” cried my guardian with his hand in his
pocket, “how is she going? What money has she got?”
Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts and brought
forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few shil-
lings and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.
“Never you mind for me, miss. I’m a soldier’s wife and accus-
tomed to travel my own way. Lignum, old boy,” kissing him, “one
for yourself, three for the children. Now I’m away into Lincolnshire
after George’s mother!”
And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one an-
other lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey cloak
at a sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone.
“Mr. Bagnet,” said my guardian. “Do you mean to let her go in
that way?”
“Can’t help it,” he returned. “Made her way home once from an-
other quarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. And same
umbrella. Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it! Whenever the old
girl says, I’ll do it. She does it.”
“Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks,” rejoined my
guardian, “and it is impossible to say more for her.”

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 Dickens

“She’s Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion,” said Mr.

Bagnet, looking at us over his shoulder as he went his way also. “And
there’s not such another. But I never own to it before her. Discipline
must be maintained.”

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Bleak House

CHAPTER LIII

The Track
MR. BUCKET AND HIS FAT FOREFINGER are much in consultation to-
gether under existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter
of this pressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger
seems to rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to his
ears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins
him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent; he
shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him to his destruction.
The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably predict that when
Mr. Bucket and that finger are in much conference, a terrible avenger
will be heard of before long.
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature,
on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon
the follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses
and strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearance rather
languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliest condition
towards his species and will drink with most of them. He is free with
his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation—but
through the placid stream of his life there glides an under-current of
forefinger.
Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract,
he is here to-day and gone to-morrow—but, very unlike man in-
deed, he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casually
looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Leicester
Dedlock’s house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walk-
ing on the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked
whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks,

736
 Dickens

pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few

hours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together compar-
ing forefingers.
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home en-
joyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go
home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.
Bucket—a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been
improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but
which has paused at the level of a clever amateur—he holds himself
aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger
(fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for com-
panionship and conversation.
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the day of the
funeral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person; strictly
speaking, there are only three other human followers, that is to say,
Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin (thrown in
as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolable carriages is im-
mense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeled affliction than
has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such is the assemblage of
armorial bearings on coach panels that the Herald’s College might be
supposed to have lost its father and mother at a blow. The Duke of
Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust
and ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last improve-
ments, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on behind,
in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seem plunged
into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garb be not
beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), it must be
highly gratified this day.
Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of
so many legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one of
the inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowd through
the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd—as for what not?—
and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage, now
from the other, now up at the house windows, now along the people’s
heads, nothing escapes him.
“And there you are, my partner, eh?” says Mr. Bucket to himself,
apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the steps of

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the deceased’s house. “And so you are. And so you are! And very well
indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!”
The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of
its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremost em-
blazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice a
hair’s breadth open while he looks.
And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is
still occupied with Mrs. B. “There you are, my partner, eh?” he
murmuringly repeats. “And our lodger with you. I’m taking notice
of you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you’re all right in your health, my dear!”
Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most atten-
tive eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought
down—Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet?
Did they fly with him on that sudden journey?—and until the pro-
cession moves, and Mr. Bucket’s view is changed. After which he
composes himself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of the
carriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.
Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark
carriage and Mr. Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasurable
track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into
the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets,
and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful
state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all one to both;
neither is troubled about that.
Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner and
glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with
himself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock’s, which is at
present a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes at
all hours’, where he is always welcome and made much of, where he
knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere of mys-
terious greatness.
No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to
be provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he is cross-
ing the hall, Mercury informs him, “Here’s another letter for you,
Mr. Bucket, come by post,” and gives it him.
“Another one, eh?” says Mr. Bucket.
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curios-

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 Dickens

ity as to Mr. Bucket’s letters, that wary person is not the man to
gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of some
miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same.
“Do you happen to carry a box?” says Mr. Bucket.
Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.
“Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?” says Mr. Bucket.
“Thankee. It don’t matter what it is; I’m not particular as to the
kind. Thankee!”
Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a consider-
able show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with
the other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the
right sort and goes on, letter in hand.
Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within
the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of
letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is not inci-
dental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling his pen like
the pocket-staff he carries about with him always convenient to his
grasp, and discourages correspondence with himself in others as be-
ing too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business. Further, he
often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has occasion to
reflect that it was a green thing to write them. For these reasons he
has very little to do with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet
he has received a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.
“And this,” says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, “is in
the same hand, and consists of the same two words.”
What two words?
He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book
(book of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly
written in each, “Lady Dedlock.”
“Yes, yes,” says Mr. Bucket. “But I could have made the money
without this anonymous information.”
Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again, he
unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which is brought upon
a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucket frequently observes, in
friendly circles where there is no restraint, that he likes a toothful of your
fine old brown East Inder sherry better than anything you can offer him.

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Consequently he fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is
proceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.
Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that
room and the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fire
is sinking low. Mr. Bucket’s eye, after taking a pigeon-flight round
the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually put as they
arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it. Mr. Bucket draws
near and examines the directions. “No,” he says, “there’s none in that
hand. It’s only me as is written to. I can break it to Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow.”
With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, and
after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. Sir Leicester
has received him there these several evenings past to know whether
he has anything to report. The debilitated cousin (much exhausted
by the funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.
Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry to
Volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, to
whom it airily says, “You are a swell about town, and you know me,
and I know you.” Having distributed these little specimens of his
tact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands.
“Have you anything new to communicate, officer?” inquires Sir
Leicester. “Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?”
“Why—not tonight, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.”
“Because my time,” pursues Sir Leicester, “is wholly at your disposal
with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law.”
Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced,
as though he would respectfully observe, “I do assure you, you’re a
pretty creetur. I’ve seen hundreds worse looking at your time of life,
I have indeed.”
The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the human-
izing influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat
notes and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket prices
that decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that Volumnia
is writing poetry.
“If I have not,” pursues Sir Leicester, “in the most emphatic man-
ner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this atro-

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cious case, I particularly desire to take the present opportunity of

rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no expense be a con-
sideration. I am prepared to defray all charges. You can incur none in
pursuit of the object you have undertaken that I shall hesitate for a
moment to bear.”
Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester’s bow again as a response to this
liberality.
“My mind,” Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmth, “has not,
as may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late diabolical
occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone. But it is full of
indignation to-night after undergoing the ordeal of consigning to
the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a devoted adherent.”
Sir Leicester’s voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his head.
Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is aroused.
“I declare,” he says, “I solemnly declare that until this crime is
discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel as if
there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoted a
large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the last
day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table
and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own, and is
struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. I cannot say
but that he may have been followed from my house, watched at my
house, even first marked because of his association with my house—
which may have suggested his possessing greater wealth and being
altogether of greater importance than his own retiring demeanour
would have indicated. If I cannot with my means and influence and
my position bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light, I fail
in the assertion of my respect for that gentleman’s memory and of
my fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me.”
While he makes this protestation with great emotion and
earnestness, looking round the room as if he were addressing an assem-
bly, Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which there
might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion.
“The ceremony of to-day,” continues Sir Leicester, “strikingly il-
lustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend”—he lays a
stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions—”was held by
the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I have received

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from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it were my brother

who had committed it, I would not spare him.”
Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased
that he was the trustiest and dearest person!
“You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss, replies Mr. Bucket
soothingly, “no doubt. He was calculated to BE a deprivation, I’m
sure he was.”
Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that her sensi-
tive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she
lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and that she has not the
least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhile she folds up a
cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath, descriptive of
her melancholy condition.
“It gives a start to a delicate female,” says Mr. Bucket sympatheti-
cally, “but it’ll wear off.”
Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether
they are going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier?
Whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called in
the law? And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.
“Why you see, miss,” returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger into
persuasive action—and such is his natural gallantry that he had al-
most said “my dear”—”it ain’t easy to answer those questions at the
present moment. Not at the present moment. I’ve kept myself on
this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” whom Mr. Bucket takes
into the conversation in right of his importance, “morning, noon,
and night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I don’t think I could have
had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. I could answer
your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, will very soon be made acquainted with
all that has been traced. And I hope that he may find it”—Mr. Bucket
again looks grave—”to his satisfaction.”
The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler’ll be executed—zample.
Thinks more interest’s wanted—get man hanged presentime—than
get man place ten thousand a year. Hasn’t a doubt—zample—far bet-
ter hang wrong fler than no fler.
“You know life, you know, sir,” says Mr. Bucket with a compli-
mentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, “and you can

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confirm what I’ve mentioned to this lady. You don’t want to be told
that from information I have received I have gone to work. You’re up
to what a lady can’t be expected to be up to. Lord! Especially in your
elevated station of society, miss,” says Mr. Bucket, quite reddening at
another narrow escape from “my dear.”
“The officer, Volumnia,” observes Sir Leicester, “is faithful to his
duty, and perfectly right.”
Mr. Bucket murmurs, “Glad to have the honour of your approba-
tion, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.”
“In fact, Volumnia,” proceeds Sir Leicester, “it is not holding up a
good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as
you have put to him. He is the best judge of his own responsibility;
he acts upon his responsibility. And it does not become us, who
assist in making the laws, to impede or interfere with those who
carry them into execution. Or,” says Sir Leicester somewhat sternly,
for Volumnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his sen-
tence, “or who vindicate their outraged majesty.”
Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely the
plea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her sex
in general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret and interest for
the darling man whose loss they all deplore.
“Very well, Volumnia,” returns Sir Leicester. “Then you cannot be
too discreet.”
Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to telling
this lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look upon the
case as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case—a beautiful case—
and what little is wanting to complete it, I expect to be able to sup-
ply in a few hours.”
“I am very glad indeed to hear it,” says Sir Leicester. “Highly cred-
itable to you.”
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket very seri-
ously, “I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit and
prove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case, you see,
miss,” Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at Sir Leicester, “I mean
from my point of view. As considered from other points of view,
such cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness. Very strange

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things comes to our knowledge in families, miss; bless your heart,

what you would think to be phenomenons, quite.”
Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so.
“Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great fami-
lies,” says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Leicester aside. “I have
had the honour of being employed in high families before, and you
have no idea—come, I’ll go so far as to say not even you have any
idea, sir,” this to the debilitated cousin, “what games goes on!”
The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a pros-
tration of boredom yawns, “Vayli,” being the used-up for “very likely.”
Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here
majestically interposes with the words, “Very good. Thank you!” and
also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is an end
of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits they
must take the consequences. “You will not forget, officer,” he adds
with condescension, “that I am at your disposal when you please.”
Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, would
suit, in case he should be as for’ard as he expects to be. Sir Leicester
replies, “All times are alike to me.” Mr. Bucket makes his three bows
and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs to him.
“Might I ask, by the by,” he says in a low voice, cautiously re-
turning, “who posted the reward-bill on the staircase.”
“I ordered it to be put up there,” replies Sir Leicester.
“Would it be considered a liberty, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
if I was to ask you why?”
“Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I
think it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establish-
ment. I wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the
crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape.
At the same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the sub-
ject see any objection—”
Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had better not
be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws, closing the door
on Volumnia’s little scream, which is a preliminary to her remarking that
that charmingly horrible person is a perfect Blue Chamber.
In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, Mr.
Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire—bright and warm

744
 Dickens

on the early winter night—admiring Mercury.

“Why, you’re six foot two, I suppose?” says Mr. Bucket.
“Three,” says Mercury.
“Are you so much? But then, you see, you’re broad in proportion
and don’t look it. You’re not one of the weak-legged ones, you ain’t.
Was you ever modelled now?” Mr. Bucket asks, conveying the ex-
pression of an artist into the turn of his eye and head.
Mercury never was modelled.
“Then you ought to be, you know,” says Mr. Bucket; “and a friend
of mine that you’ll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor
would stand something handsome to make a drawing of your pro-
portions for the marble. My Lady’s out, ain’t she?”
“Out to dinner.”
“Goes out pretty well every day, don’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Not to be wondered at!” says Mr. Bucket. “Such a fine woman as
her, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a fresh lemon
on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. Was your father in
the same way of life as yourself?”
Answer in the negative.
“Mine was,” says Mr. Bucket. “My father was first a page, then a
footman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. Lived
universally respected, and died lamented. Said with his last breath
that he considered service the most honourable part of his career, and
so it was. I’ve a brother in service, and a brother-in-law. My Lady a
good temper?”
Mercury replies, “As good as you can expect.”
“Ah!” says Mr. Bucket. “A little spoilt? A little capricious?
Lord! What can you anticipate when they’re so handsome as that?
And we like ‘em all the better for it, don’t we?”
Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blos-
som small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of
a man of gallantry and can’t deny it. Come the roll of wheels and a
violent ringing at the bell. “Talk of the angels,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Here she is!”
The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. Still
very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears two beautiful

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bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her arms is particularly

attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with an eager eye and
rattles something in his pocket—halfpence perhaps.
Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the
other Mercury who has brought her home.
“Mr. Bucket, my Lady.”
Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiar
demon over the region of his mouth.
“Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?”
“No, my Lady, I’ve seen him!”
“Have you anything to say to me?”
“Not just at present, my Lady.”
“Have you made any new discoveries?”
“A few, my Lady.”
This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and sweeps up-
stairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot, watches her
as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his grave, past mur-
derous groups of statuary repeated with their shadowy weapons on the
wall, past the printed bill, which she looks at going by, out of view.
“She’s a lovely woman, too, she really is,” says Mr. Bucket, com-
ing back to Mercury. “Don’t look quite healthy though.”
Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him. Suffers much from
headaches.
Really? That’s a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend for
that. Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks sometimes for two
hours when she has them bad. By night, too.
“Are you sure you’re quite so much as six foot three?” asks Mr.
Bucket. “Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?”
Not a doubt about it.
“You’re so well put together that I shouldn’t have thought it. But
the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so strag-
gling. Walks by night, does she? When it’s moonlight, though?”
Oh, yes. When it’s moonlight! Of course. Oh, of course!
Conversational and acquiescent on both sides.
“I suppose you ain’t in the habit of walking yourself?” says Mr.
Bucket. “Not much time for it, I should say?”
Besides which, Mercury don’t like it. Prefers carriage exercise.

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 Dickens

“To be sure,” says Mr. Bucket. “That makes a difference. Now I

think of it,” says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and looking pleas-
antly at the blaze, “she went out walking the very night of this
business.”
“To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way.
“And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it.”
“I didn’t see you,” says Mercury.
“I was rather in a hurry,” returns Mr. Bucket, “for I was going to
visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea—next door but two to the
old original Bun House—ninety year old the old lady is, a single
woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be passing at the
time. Let’s see. What time might it be? It wasn’t ten.”
“Half-past nine.”
“You’re right. So it was. And if I don’t deceive myself, my Lady
was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?”
“Of course she was.”
Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has
to get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury in
acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he—this is
all he asks—will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of be-
stowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage of
both parties?

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CHAPTER LIV

Springing a Mine
REFRESHED BY SLEEP, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning and
prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt and
a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions of ceremony,
he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his life of severe
study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton chops as a foun-
dation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, and marmalade
on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed these strengthening
matters and having held subtle conference with his familiar demon,
he confidently instructs Mercury “just to mention quietly to Sir Le-
icester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever he’s ready for me, I’m ready
for him.” A gracious message being returned that Sir Leicester will
expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the library within ten
minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartment and stands before the
fire with his finger on his chin, looking at the blazing coals.
Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to
do, but composed, sure, confident. From the expression of his face
he might be a famous whist-player for a large stake—say a hundred
guineas certain—with the game in his hand, but with a high reputa-
tion involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in a masterly
way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr. Bucket when Sir
Leicester appears, but he eyes the baronet aside as he comes slowly to
his easy-chair with that observant gravity of yesterday in which there
might have been yesterday, but for the audacity of the idea, a touch
of compassion.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather later than
my usual hour this morning. I am not well. The agitation and the indig-

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nation from which I have recently suffered have been too much for me.
I am subject to—gout”—Sir Leicester was going to say indisposition
and would have said it to anybody else, but Mr. Bucket palpably knows
all about it—”and recent circumstances have brought it on.”
As he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain,
Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his large hands
on the library-table.
“I am not aware, officer,” Sir Leicester observes; raising his eyes to
his face, “whether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirely as you
please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Dedlock would be
interested—”
“Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket with his
head persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one ear like
an earring, “we can’t be too private just at present. You will presently see
that we can’t be too private. A lady, under the circumstances, and espe-
cially in Miss Dedlock’s elevated station of society, can’t but be agree-
able to me, but speaking without a view to myself, I will take the
liberty of assuring you that I know we can’t be too private.”
“That is enough.”
“So much so, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” Mr. Bucket resumes,
“that I was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key in
the door.”
“By all means.” Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes that
precaution, stooping on his knee for a moment from mere force of
habit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in
from the outerside.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening that
I wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have now completed
it and collected proof against the person who did this crime.”
“Against the soldier?”
“No, Sir Leicester Dedlock; not the soldier.”
Sir Leicester looks astounded and inquires, “Is the man in
custody?”
Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, “It was a woman.”
Sir Leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates,
“Good heaven!”
“Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” Mr. Bucket begins, stand-
ing over him with one hand spread out on the library-table and the
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forefinger of the other in impressive use, “it’s my duty to prepare you

for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as to say that
will, give you a shock. But Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, you are a
gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is and what a gentleman is
capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock when it must come, boldly
and steadily. A gentleman can make up his mind to stand up against
almost any blow. Why, take yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Bar-
onet. If there’s a blow to be inflicted on you, you naturally think of
your family. You ask yourself, how would all them ancestors of yours,
away to Julius Caesar—not to go beyond him at present—have borne
that blow; you remember scores of them that would have borne it
well; and you bear it well on their accounts, and to maintain the
family credit. That’s the way you argue, and that’s the way you act,
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.”
Sir Leicester, leaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows, sits
looking at him with a stony face.
“Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, “thus prepar-
ing you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment
as to anything having come to my knowledge. I know so much about
so many characters, high and low, that a piece of information more
or less don’t signify a straw. I don’t suppose there’s a move on the
board that would surprise me, and as to this or that move having
taken place, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible move
whatever (provided it’s in a wrong direction) being a probable move
according to my experience. Therefore, what I say to you, Sir Leices-
ter Dedlock, Baronet, is, don’t you go and let yourself be put out of
the way because of my knowing anything of your family affairs.”
“I thank you for your preparation,” returns Sir Leicester after a
silence, without moving hand, foot, or feature, “which I hope is not
necessary; though I give it credit for being well intended. Be so good
as to go on. Also”—Sir Leicester seems to shrink in the shadow of his
figure—”also, to take a seat, if you have no objection.”
None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow.
“Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short preface I come
to the point. Lady Dedlock—”
Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat and stares at him fiercely. Mr.
Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.

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 Dickens

“Lady Dedlock, you see she’s universally admired. That’s what her
ladyship is; she’s universally admired,” says Mr. Bucket.
“I would greatly prefer, officer,” Sir Leicester returns stiffly,
“my Lady’s name being entirely omitted from this discussion.”
“So would I, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, but—it’s impossible.”
“Impossible?”
Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it’s altogether impossible. What I
have got to say is about her ladyship. She is the pivot it all turns on.”
“Officer,” retorts Sir Leicester with a fiery eye and a quivering lip,
“you know your duty. Do your duty, but be careful not to overstep
it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. You bring my Lady’s
name into this communication upon your responsibility—upon your
responsibility. My Lady’s name is not a name for common persons
to trifle with!”
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say, and no
more.”
“I hope it may prove so. Very well. Go on. Go on, sir!” Glancing
at the angry eyes which now avoid him and at the angry figure trem-
bling from head to foot, yet striving to be still, Mr. Bucket feels his
way with his forefinger and in a low voice proceeds.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell you
that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts and
suspicions of Lady Dedlock.”
“If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir—which he never did—
I would have killed him myself!” exclaims Sir Leicester, striking his
hand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury of the act he stops,
fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, whose forefinger is slowly
going and who, with mingled confidence and patience, shakes his head.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep and
close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning I can’t
quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his lips that he long
ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discovered, through the sight
of some handwriting—in this very house, and when you yourself, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, were present—the existence, in great poverty, of a
certain person who had been her lover before you courted her and who
ought to have been her husband.” Mr. Bucket stops and deliberately

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repeats, “Ought to have been her husband, not a doubt about it. I
know from his lips that when that person soon afterwards died, he
suspected Lady Dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging and his
wretched grave, alone and in secret. I know from my own inquiries
and through my eyes and ears that Lady Dedlock did make such visit
in the dress of her own maid, for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn em-
ployed me to reckon up her ladyship—if you’ll excuse my making use
of the term we commonly employ—and I reckoned her up, so far,
completely. I confronted the maid in the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn
Fields with a witness who had been Lady Dedlock’s guide, and there
couldn’t be the shadow of a doubt that she had worn the young woman’s
dress, unknown to her. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeav-
our to pave the way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yester-
day by saying that very strange things happened even in high families
sometimes. All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and
to and through your own Lady. It’s my belief that the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and
that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the
matter that very night. Now, only you put that to Lady Dedlock, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after
he had left here, she didn’t go down to his chambers with the intention
of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose black mantle
with a deep fringe to it.”
Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is prob-
ing the life-blood of his heart.
“You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, from
me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makes
any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it’s no use, that
Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as
you called him (though he’s not in the army now) and knows that
she knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, why do I relate all this?”
Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a
single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By and by he
takes his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calm-
ness, though there is no more colour in his face than in his white hair,
that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something frozen and fixed

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is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell of haughtiness, and
Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with
now and then a curious trouble in beginning, which occasions him
to utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds he now breaks silence,
soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not compre-
hend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late Mr.
Tulkinghorn should have communicated to him nothing of this pain-
ful, this distressing, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this in-
credible intelligence.
“Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” returns Mr. Bucket, “put
it to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, if you think
it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You’ll find, or I’m
much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had the inten-
tion of communicating the whole to you as soon as he considered it
ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so to understand.
Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very morning when I
examined the body! You don’t know what I’m going to say and do
five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet;
and supposing I was to be picked off now, you might wonder why I
hadn’t done it, don’t you see?”
True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusive
sounds, says, “True.” At this juncture a considerable noise of voices is
heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes to the library-
door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. Then he draws in
his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly, “Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken air, as I
expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn being cut down so
sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in these people now in a
wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting quiet—on the
family account—while I reckon ‘em up? And would you just throw
in a nod when I seem to ask you for it?”
Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, “Officer. The best you can, the
best you can!” and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of
the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly die
away. He is not long in returning; a few paces ahead of Mercury and
a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who
bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. Another

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man and two women come behind. Directing the pitching of the
chair in an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercu-
ries and locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion
of the sacred precincts with an icy stare.
“Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,” says
Mr. Bucket in a confidential voice. “I am Inspector Bucket of the
Detective, I am; and this,” producing the tip of his convenient little
staff from his breast-pocket, “is my authority. Now, you wanted to
see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do see him, and mind
you, it ain’t every one as is admitted to that honour. Your name, old
gentleman, is Smallweed; that’s what your name is; I know it well.”
“Well, and you never heard any harm of it!” cries Mr. Smallweed
in a shrill loud voice.
“You don’t happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?”
retorts Mr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.
“No!”
“Why, they killed him,” says Mr. Bucket, “on account of his hav-
ing so much cheek. Don’t you get into the same position, because it
isn’t worthy of you. You ain’t in the habit of conversing with a deaf
person, are you?”
“Yes,” snarls Mr. Smallweed, “my wife’s deaf.”
“That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she
ain’t here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I’ll not
only be obliged to you, but it’ll do you more credit,” says Mr. Bucket.
“This other gentleman is in the preaching line, I think?”
“Name of Chadband,” Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking hence-
forth in a much lower key.
“Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,” says
Mr. Bucket, offering his hand, “and consequently feel a liking for it.
Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?”
“And Mrs. Snagsby,” Mr. Smallweed introduces.
“Husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Love him like a brother! Now, what’s up?”
“Do you mean what business have we come upon?” Mr. Smallweed
asks, a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.
“Ah! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it’s all about in
presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come.”

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Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment’s coun-

sel with him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a considerable
amount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his
hands, says aloud, “Yes. You first!” and retires to his former place.
“I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn,” pipes Grandfather
Smallweed then; “I did business with him. I was useful to him, and he was
useful to me. Krook, dead and gone, was my brother-in-law. He was own
brother to a brimstone magpie—leastways Mrs. Smallweed. I come into
Krook’s property. I examined all his papers and all his effects. They was all
dug out under my eyes. There was a bundle of letters belonging to a dead
and gone lodger as was hid away at the back of a shelf in the side of Lady
Jane’s bed—his cat’s bed. He hid all manner of things away, everywheres.
Mr. Tulkinghorn wanted ‘em and got ‘em, but I looked ‘em over first. I’m
a man of business, and I took a squint at ‘em. They was letters from the
lodger’s sweetheart, and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that’s not a com-
mon name, Honoria, is it? There’s no lady in this house that signs Honoria
is there? Oh, no, I don’t think so! Oh, no, I don’t think so! And not in the
same hand, perhaps? Oh, no, I don’t think so!”
Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst of
his triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, “Oh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I’m
shaken all to pieces!”
“Now, when you’re ready,” says Mr. Bucket after awaiting his re-
covery, “to come to anything that concerns Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know.”
“Haven’t I come to it, Mr. Bucket?” cries Grandfather Smallweed.
“Isn’t the gentleman concerned yet? Not with Captain Hawdon, and
his ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain? Come,
then, I want to know where those letters are. That concerns me, if it
don’t concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will know where they are. I
won’t have ‘em disappear so quietly. I handed ‘em over to my friend
and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybody else.”
“Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too,” says
Mr. Bucket.
“I don’t care for that. I want to know who’s got ‘em. And I tell you
what we want—what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want more
painstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where the
interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. If George

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the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an accomplice,
and was set on. You know what I mean as well as any man.”
“Now I tell you what,” says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously altering
his manner, coming close to him, and communicating an extraordi-
nary fascination to the forefinger, “I am damned if I am a-going to
have my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much as
half a second of time by any human being in creation. you want more
painstaking and search-making! you do? Do you see this hand, and
do you think that I don’t know the right time to stretch it out and
put it on the arm that fired that shot?”
Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it is
that he makes no idle boast, that Mr. Smallweed begins to apologize.
Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him.
“The advice I give you is, don’t you trouble your head about the
murder. That’s my affair. You keep half an eye on the newspapers,
and I shouldn’t wonder if you was to read something about it before
long, if you look sharp. I know my business, and that’s all I’ve got to
say to you on that subject. Now about those letters. You want to
know who’s got ‘em. I don’t mind telling you. I have got ‘em. Is that
the packet?”
Mr. Smallweed looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle Mr.
Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identifles it
as the same.
“What have you got to say next?” asks Mr. Bucket. “Now, don’t
open your mouth too wide, because you don’t look handsome when
you do it.”
“I want five hundred pound.”
“No, you don’t; you mean fifty,” says Mr. Bucket humorously.
It appears, however, that Mr. Smallweed means five hundred.
“That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to con-
sider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit of busi-
ness,” says Mr. Bucket—Sir Leicester mechanically bows his head—
”and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred pounds.
Why, it’s an unreasonable proposal! Two fifty would be bad enough,
but better than that. Hadn’t you better say two fifty?”
Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not.
“Then,” says Mr. Bucket, “let’s hear Mr. Chadband. Lord! Many a

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time I’ve heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate

man he was in all respects, as ever I come across!”
Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek
smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands, delivers
himself as follows, “My friends, we are now—Rachael, my wife, and
I—in the mansions of the rich and great. Why are we now in the
mansions of the rich and great, my friends? Is it because we are in-
vited? Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are bid-
den to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute with
them, because we are bidden to dance with them? No. Then why are
we here, my friends? Air we in possession of a sinful secret, and do
we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much the same thing,
money, for the keeping thereof? Probably so, my friends.”
“You’re a man of business, you are,” returns Mr. Bucket, very at-
tentive, “and consequently you’re going on to mention what the na-
ture of your secret is. You are right. You couldn’t do better.”
“Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love,” says Mr. Chadband
with a cunning eye, “proceed unto it. Rachael, my wife, advance!”
Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her hus-
band into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard,
frowning smile.
“Since you want to know what we know,” says she, “I’ll tell you. I
helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship’s daughter. I was in
the service of her ladyship’s sister, who was very sensitive to the dis-
grace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her lady-
ship, that the child was dead—she was very nearly so—when she was
born. But she’s alive, and I know her.” With these words, and a laugh,
and laying a bitter stress on the word “ladyship,” Mrs. Chadband
folds her arms and looks implacably at Mr. Bucket.
“I suppose now,” returns that officer, “You will he expecting a
twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?”
Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he
can “offer” twenty pence.
“My friend the law-stationer’s good lady, over there,” says Mr.
Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. “What may
your game be, ma’am?”
Mrs. Snagsby is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, from
stating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly comes to
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light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs,

whom Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceived, abandoned, and sought
to keep in darkness, and whose chief comfort, under her afflictions,
has been the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, who showed so
much commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in Cook’s
Court in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of late
habitually carried to him all her woes. Everybody it appears, the present
company excepted, has plotted against Mrs. Snagsby’s peace. There
is Mr. Guppy, clerk to Kenge and Carboy, who was at first as open as
the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close as midnight,
under the influence—no doubt—of Mr. Snagsby’s suborning and
tampering. There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Guppy, who lived
mysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. There
was Krook, deceased; there was Nimrod, deceased; and there was Jo,
deceased; and they were “all in it.” In what, Mrs. Snagsby does not
with particularity express, but she knows that Jo was Mr. Snagsby’s
son, “as well as if a trumpet had spoken it,” and she followed Mr.
Snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boy, and if he was not
his son why did he go? The one occupation of her life has been, for
some time back, to follow Mr. Snagsby to and fro, and up and down,
and to piece suspicious circumstances together—and every circum-
stance that has happened has been most suspicious; and in this way
she has pursued her object of detecting and confounding her false
husband, night and day. Thus did it come to pass that she brought
the Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn together, and conferred with
Mr. Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr. Guppy, and helped to turn
up the circumstances in which the present company are interested,
casually, by the wayside, being still and ever on the great high road
that is to terminate in Mr. Snagsby’s full exposure and a matrimonial
separation. All this, Mrs. Snagsby, as an injured woman, and the
friend of Mrs. Chadband, and the follower of Mr. Chadband, and
the mourner of the late Mr.
Tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the seal of confidence, with
every possible confusion and involvement possible and impossible,
having no pecuniary motive whatever, no scheme or project but the
one mentioned, and bringing here, and taking everywhere, her own
dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the ceaseless working of her

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mill of jealousy.
While this exordium is in hand—and it takes some time—Mr.
Bucket, who has seen through the transparency of Mrs. Snagsby’s
vinegar at a glance, confers with his familiar demon and bestows his
shrewd attention on the Chadbands and Mr. Smallweed. Sir Leices-
ter Dedlock remains immovable, with the same icy surface upon
him, except that he once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucket, as rely-
ing on that officer alone of all mankind.
“Very good,” says Mr. Bucket. “Now I understand you, you know,
and being deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to look into
this little matter,” again Sir Leicester mechanically bows in confirma-
tion of the statement, “can give it my fair and full attention. Now I
won’t allude to conspiring to extort money or anything of that sort,
because we are men and women of the world here, and our object is
to make things pleasant. But I tell you what I do wonder at; I am
surprised that you should think of making a noise below in the hall.
It was so opposed to your interests. That’s what I look at.”
“We wanted to get in,” pleads Mr. Smallweed.
“Why, of course you wanted to get in,” Mr. Bucket asserts with
cheerfulness; “but for a old gentleman at your time of life—what I
call truly venerable, mind you!—with his wits sharpened, as I have
no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, which occa-
sions all his animation to mount up into his head, not to consider
that if he don’t keep such a business as the present as close as possible
it can’t be worth a mag to him, is so curious! You see your temper got
the better of you; that’s where you lost ground,” says Mr. Bucket in
an argumentative and friendly way.
“I only said I wouldn’t go without one of the servants came up to
Sir Leicester Dedlock,” returns Mr. Smallweed.
“That’s it! That’s where your temper got the better of you. Now,
you keep it under another time and you’ll make money by it. Shall I
ring for them to carry you down?”
“When are we to hear more of this?” Mrs. Chadband sternly de-
mands.
“Bless your heart for a true woman! Always curious, your
delightful sex is!” replies Mr. Bucket with gallantry. “I shall
have the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day—not

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forgetting Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two fifty.”

“Five hundred!” exclaims Mr. Smallweed.
“All right! Nominally five hundred.” Mr. Bucket has his hand
on the bell-rope. “Shall I wish you good day for the present on the
part of myself and the gentleman of the house?” he asks in an in-
sinuating tone.
Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does it, and
the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them to the door, and
returning, says with an air of serious business, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Bar-
onet, it’s for you to consider whether or not to buy this up. I should
recommend, on the whole, it’s being bought up myself; and I think it may
be bought pretty cheap. You see, that little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs.
Snagsby has been used by all sides of the speculation and has done a deal
more harm in bringing odds and ends together than if she had meant it.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these horses in his hand and could
have drove ‘em his own way, I haven’t a doubt; but he was fetched off the
box head-foremost, and now they have got their legs over the traces, and
are all dragging and pulling their own ways. So it is, and such is life. The
cat’s away, and the mice they play; the frost breaks up, and the water runs.
Now, with regard to the party to be apprehended.”
Sir Leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide open,
and he looks intently at Mr. Bucket as Mr. Bucket refers to his watch.
“The party to be apprehended is now in this house,” proceeds Mr.
Bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand and with rising spirits,
“and I’m about to take her into custody in your presence. Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, don’t you say a word nor yet stir. There’ll be no noise
and no disturbance at all. I’ll come back in the course of the evening, if
agreeable to you, and endeavour to meet your wishes respecting this
unfortunate family matter and the nobbiest way of keeping it quiet.
Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don’t you be nervous on account
of the apprehension at present coming off. You shall see the whole case
clear, from first to last.”
Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, shuts
the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After a suspense
of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwoman en-
ters. Mademoiselle Hortense.
The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and

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puts his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to
turn, and then for the first time she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock in his chair.
“I ask you pardon,” she mutters hurriedly. “They tell me there was
no one here.”
Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr. Bucket.
Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns deadly pale.
“This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock,” says Mr. Bucket,
nodding at her. “This foreign young woman has been my lodger for
some weeks back.”
“What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?” returns
mademoiselle in a jocular strain.
“Why, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket, “we shall see.”
Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face,
which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, “You are very
mysterieuse. Are you drunk?”
“Tolerable sober, my angel,” returns Mr. Bucket.
“I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife.
Your wife have left me since some minutes. They tell me downstairs
that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here. What is
the intention of this fool’s play, say then?” mademoiselle demands,
with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her dark
cheek beating like a clock.
Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.
“Ah, my God, you are an unhappy idiot!” cries mademoiselle with a
toss of her head and a laugh. “Leave me to pass downstairs, great pig.”
With a stamp of her foot and a menace.
“Now, mademoiselle,” says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined way,
“you go and sit down upon that sofy.”
“I will not sit down upon nothing,” she replies with a shower of nods.
“Now, mademoiselle,” repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demon-
stration except with the finger, “you sit down upon that sofy.”
“Why?”
“Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you
don’t need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of your sex
and a foreigner if I can. If I can’t, I must be rough, and there’s rougher
ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. So I recommend
you, as a friend, afore another half a blessed moment has passed over

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your head, to go and sit down upon that sofy.”

Mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice while that
something in her cheek beats fast and hard, “You are a devil.”
“Now, you see,” Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, “you’re comfortable
and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign young woman of
your sense to do. So I’ll give you a piece of advice, and it’s this, don’t you
talk too much. You’re not expected to say anything here, and you can’t keep
too quiet a tongue in your head. In short, the less you parlay, the better, you
know.” Mr. Bucket is very complacent over this French explanation.
Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her
black eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a rigid
state, with her hands clenched—and her feet too, one might sup-
pose—muttering, “Oh, you Bucket, you are a devil!”
“Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” says Mr. Bucket, and from
this time forth the finger never rests, “this young woman, my lodger,
was her ladyship’s maid at the time I have mentioned to you; and this
young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and passionate
against her ladyship after being discharged—”
“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “I discharge myself.”
“Now, why don’t you take my advice?” returns Mr. Bucket in an
impressive, almost in an imploring, tone. “I’m surprised at the indis-
creetness you commit. You’ll say something that’ll be used against
you, you know. You’re sure to come to it. Never you mind what I say
till it’s given in evidence. It is not addressed to you.”
“Discharge, too,” cries mademoiselle furiously, “by her ladyship!
Eh, my faith, a pretty ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character hy
remaining with a ladyship so infame!”
“Upon my soul I wonder at you!” Mr. Bucket remonstrates. “I
thought the French were a polite nation, I did, really. Yet to hear a
female going on like that before Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet!”
“He is a poor abused!” cries mademoiselle. “I spit upon his house,
upon his name, upon his imbecility,” all of which she makes the
carpet represent. “Oh, that he is a great man! Oh, yes, superb! Oh,
heaven! Bah!”
“Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, “this
intemperate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had
established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending

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on the occasion I told you of at his chambers, though she was liber-
ally paid for her time and trouble.”
“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “I ref-use his money all togezzer.”
“If you will parlay, you know,” says Mr. Bucket parenthetically,
“you must take the consequences. Now, whether she became my
lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate intention then of
doing this deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on; but she lived
in my house in that capacity at the time that she was hovering about
the chambers of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn with a view to a
wrangle, and likewise persecuting and half frightening the life out of
an unfortunate stationer.”
“Lie!” cries mademoiselle. “All lie!”
“The murder was commttted, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and
you know under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to follow
me close with your attention for a minute or two. I was sent for, and
the case was entrusted to me. I examined the place, and the body, and
the papers, and everything. From information I received (from a clerk
in the same house) I took George into custody as having been seen
hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh the time of the
murder, also as having been overheard in high words
with the deceased on former occasions—even threatening him, as
the witness made out. If you ask me, Sir Leicester Dedlock, whether
from the first I believed George to be the murderer, I tell you can-
didly no, but he might be, notwithstanding, and there was enough
against him to make it my duty to take him and get him kept under
remand. Now, observe!”
As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement—for him—and
inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his forefin-
ger in the air, Mademoiselle Hortense fixes her black eyes upon him
with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmly together.
“I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night and found
this young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. She had
made a mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from her first
offering herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than ever—
in fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her respect, and all that, for the
lamented memory of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn. By the living
Lord it flashed upon me, as I sat opposite to her at the table and saw

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her with a knife in her hand, that she had done it!”
Mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth and
lips the words, “You are a devil.”
“Now where,” pursues Mr. Bucket, “had she been on the night of the
murder? She had been to the theayter. (She really was there, I have since
found, both before the deed and after it.) I knew I had an artful cus-
tomer to deal with and that proof would be very difficult; and I laid a
trap for her—such a trap as I never laid yet, and such a venture as I never
made yet. I worked it out in my mind while I was talking to her at
supper. When I went upstairs to bed, our house being small and this
young woman’s ears sharp, I stuffed the sheet into Mrs. Bucket’s mouth
that she shouldn’t say a word of surprise and told her all about it. My
dear, don’t you give your mind to that again, or I shall link your feet
together at the ankles.” Mr. Bucket, breaking off, has made a noiseless
descent upon mademoiselle and laid his heavy hand upon her shoulder.
“What is the matter with you now?” she asks him.
“Don’t you think any more,” returns Mr. Bucket with admoni-
tory finger, “of throwing yourself out of window. That’s what’s the
matter with me. Come! Just take my arm. You needn’t get up; I’ll sit
down by you. Now take my arm, will you? I’m a married man, you
know; you’re acquainted with my wife. Just take my arm.”
Vaiuly endeavouring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful sound
she struggles with herself and complies.
“Now we’re all right again. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this
case could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket, who is
a woman in fifty thousand—in a hundred and fifty thousand! To
throw this young woman off her guard, I have never set foot in our
house since, though I’ve communicated with Mrs. Bucket in the
baker’s loaves and in the milk as often as required. My whispered
words to Mrs. Bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were,
‘My dear, can you throw her off continually with natural accounts of
my suspicions against George, and this, and that, and t’other? Can
you do without rest and keep watch upon her night and day? Can
you undertake to say, “She shall do nothing without my knowledge,
she shall be my prisoner without suspecting it, she shall no more
escape from me than from death, and her life shall be my life, and
her soul my soul, till I have got her, if she did this murder?”’ Mrs.

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Bucket says to me, as well as she could speak on account of

the sheet, ‘Bucket, I can!’ And she has acted up to it glorious!”
“Lies!” mademoiselle interposes. “All lies, my friend!”
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how did my calculations come
out under these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetu-
ous young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I wrong
or right? I was right. What does she try to do? Don’t let it give you a
turn? To throw the murder on her ladyship.”
Sir Leicester rises from his chair and staggers down again.
“And she got encouragement in it from hearing that I was always
here, which was done a-purpose. Now, open that pocket-book of
mine, Sir Leicester Dedlock, if I may take the liberty of throwing it
towards you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with the two
words ‘Lady Dedlock’ in it. Open the one directed to yourself, which
I stopped this very morning, and read the three words ‘Lady Dedlock,
Murderess’ in it. These letters have been falling about like a shower
of lady-birds. What do you say now to Mrs. Bucket, from her spy-
place having seen them all ‘written by this young woman? What do
you say to Mrs. Bucket having, within this half-hour, secured the
corresponding ink and paper, fellow half-sheets and what not? What
do you say to Mrs. Bucket having watched the posting of ‘em every
one by this young woman, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?” Mr.
Bucket asks, triumphant in his admiration of his lady’s genius.
Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to a
conclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a dreadful
right of property in mademoiselle. Secondly, that the very atmo-
sphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her as if a
close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer around her
breathless figure.
“There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the event-
ful period,” says Mr. Bucket, “and my foreign friend here saw her, I
believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her ladyship and George
and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one another’s heels.
But that don’t signify any more, so I’ll not go into it. I found the
wadding of the pistol with which the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was
shot. It was a bit of the printed description of your house at Chesney
Wold. Not much in that, you’ll say, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.

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No. But when my foreign friend here is so thoroughly off her guard
as to think it a safe time to tear up the rest of that leaf, and when Mrs.
Bucket puts the pieces together and finds the wadding wanting, it
begins to look like Queer Street.”
“These are very long lies,” mademoiselle interposes. “You prose
great deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking
always?”
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, who de-
lights in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses
with any fragment of it, “the last point in the case which I am now
going to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business,
and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman
yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the fu-
neral, in company with my wife, who planned to take her there; and
I had so much to convict her, and I saw such an expression in her
face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards her ladyship,
and the time was altogether such a time for bringing down what you
may call retribution upon her, that if I had been a younger hand with
less experience, I should have taken her, certain. Equally, last night,
when her ladyship, as is so universally admired I am sure, come home
looking—why, Lord, a man might almost say like Venus rising from
the ocean—it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her
being charged with a murder of which she was innocent that I felt
quite to want to put an end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My pris-
oner here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the fu-
neral, that they should go per bus a little ways into the country and
take tea at a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that
house of entertainment there’s a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner
got up to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the
bonnets was; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little
out of wind. As soon as they came home this was reported to me by
Mrs. Bucket, along with her observations and suspicions. I had the
piece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our
men, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there
half-a-dozen hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little further
through mine, and hold it steady, and I shan’t hurt you!”

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In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. “That’s one,”

says Mr. Bucket. “Now the other, darling. Two, and all told!”
He rises; she rises too. “Where,” she asks him, darkening her large
eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them—and yet they
stare, “where is your false, your treacherous, and cursed wife?”
“She’s gone forrard to the Police Office,” returns Mr. Bucket.
“You’ll see her there, my dear.”
“I would like to kiss her!” exclaims Mademoiselle Hortense, pant-
ing tigress-like.
“You’d bite her, I suspect,” says Mr. Bucket.
“I would!” making her eyes very large. “I would love to tear her
limb from limb.”
“Bless you, darling,” says Mr. Bucket with the greatest compo-
sure, “I’m fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprising
animosity against one another when you do differ. You don’t mind
me half so much, do you?”
“No. Though you are a devil still.”
“Angel and devil by turns, eh?” cries Mr. Bucket. “But I am in my
regular employment, you must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy.
I’ve been lady’s maid to a good many before now. Anything wanting
to the bonnet? There’s a cab at the door.”
Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass, shakes
herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do her justice, un-
commonly genteel.
“Listen then, my angel,” says she after several sarcastic nods. “You
are very spiritual. But can you restore him back to life?”
Mr. Bucket answers, “Not exactly.”
“That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Can you
make a honourahle lady of her?”
“Don’t be so malicious,” says Mr. Bucket.
“Or a haughty gentleman of him?” cries mademoiselle, referring
to Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. “Eh! Oh, then regard him!
The poor infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Come, come, why this is worse parlaying than the other,” says
Mr. Bucket. “Come along!”
“You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please with
me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel. Adieu,

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you old man, grey. I pity you, and I despise you!”

With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth
closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucket
gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar to
himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hovering away
with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object of his
affections.
Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as though
he were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At
length he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted,
rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few
steps, supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and with
more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to
stare at something.
Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Chesney
Wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers de-
facing them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious
heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces
sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to his bewilder-
ment, there is one other shadow which he can name with something
like distinctness even yet and to which alone he addresses his tearing
of his white hair and his extended arms.
It is she in association with whom, saving that she has been for
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never
had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired, honoured,
and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, at the core of all the
constrained formalities and conventionalities of his life, has been a
stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as nothing else is of
being struck with the agony he feels. He sees her, almost to the exclu-
sion of himself, and cannot bear to look upon her cast down from
the high place she has graced so well.
And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of
his suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of
mourning and compassion rather than reproach.

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CHAPTER LV

Flight
INSPECTOR BUCKET OF THE Detective has not yet struck his great blow,
as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep prepara-
tory to his field-day, when through the night and along the freezing
wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire, making its
way towards London.
Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and
a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide
night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet such things are
non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected. Prepara-
tions are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked out. Bridges
are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately look at one an-
other over roads and streams like brick and mortar couples with an
obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up
and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows tum-
bling over them; tripods of tall poles appear on hilltops, where there
are rumours of tunnels; everything looks chaotic and abandoned in
full hopelessness. Along the freezing roads, and through the night,
the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.
Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold,
sits within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey
cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, as
being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in
accordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Rouncewell
is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. The
old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in her stately
manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness, puts it

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often to her lips. “You are a mother, my dear soul,” says she many
times, “and you found out my George’s mother!”
“Why, George,” returns Mrs. Bagnet, “was always free with me,
ma’am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all
the things my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be
a man, the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sor-
rowful line into his mother’s face or turned a hair of her head grey,
then I felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his
own mother into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in
past times, that he had behaved bad to her.”
“Never, my dear!” returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears.
“My blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and loving
to me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little
wild and went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first, in letting
us know about himself, till he should rise to be an officer; and when
he didn’t rise, I know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn’t
be a disgrace to us. For he had a lion heart, had my George, always
from a baby!”
The old lady’s hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls,
all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay good-
humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at
Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a young
gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who
had been angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone,
poor boy. And now to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the
broad stomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure
bends under its load of affectionate distress.
Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves
the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while—not without
passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes—and
presently chirps up in her cheery manner, “So I says to George when
I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe
outside), ‘What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracious sake? I
have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often in season and out
of season, abroad and at home, and I never see you so melancholy
penitent.’ ‘Why, Mrs. Bagnet,’ says George, ‘it’s because I am melan-
choly and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.’ ‘What

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have you done, old fellow?’ I says. ‘Why, Mrs. Bagnet,’ says George,
shaking his head, ‘what I have done has been done this many a long
year, and is best not tried to be undone now. If I ever get to heaven it
won’t be for being a good son to a widowed mother; I say no more.’
Now, ma’am, when George says to me that it’s best not tried to be
undone now, I have my thoughts as I have often had before, and I
draw it out of George how he comes to have such things on him that
afternoon. Then George tells me that he has seen by chance, at the
lawyer’s office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain
before him, and he runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets
himself and paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon
years back. So I says to George when he has done, who is this old
lady he has seen? And George tells me it’s Mrs. Rouncewell, house-
keeper for more than half a century to the Dedlock family down at
Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George has frequently told me be-
fore that he’s a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that
night, ‘Lignum, that’s his mother for five and for-ty pound!’”
All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least
within the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird, with a
pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady above the
hum of the wheels.
“Bless you, and thank you,” says Mrs. Rouncewell. “Bless you,
and thank you, my worthy soul!”
“Dear heart!” cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. “No
thanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma’am, for being so
ready to pay ‘em! And mind once more, ma’am, what you had best
do on finding George to be your own son is to make him—for your
sake—have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear
himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. It won’t
do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and law-
yers,” exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter form
a separate establishment and have dissolved partnership with truth
and justice for ever and a day.
“He shall have,” says Mrs. Rouncewell, “all the help that can be
got for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, and thank-
fully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the whole family
will do their best. I—I know something, my dear; and will make my

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own appeal, as his mother parted from him all these years, and find-
ing him in a jail at last.”
The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper’s manner in say-
ing this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a
powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but
that she refers them all to her sorrow for her son’s condition. And yet
Mrs. Bagnet wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so
distractedly, “My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!” over and over again.
The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-
chaise comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of a
chaise departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts of trees
and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities of day.
London reached, the travellers alight, the old housekeeper in great
tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quite fresh and collected—as
she would be if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit,
were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascension, Hong Kong,
or any other military station.
But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined,
the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured
dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usual accompaniment. A
wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece of old china she looks,
though her heart beats fast and her stomacher is ruffled more than even
the remembrance of this wayward son has ruffled it these many years.
Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in
the act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of en-
treaty to him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffers them to
enter as he shuts the door.
So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be
alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old house-
keeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are quite
enough for Mrs. Bagnet’s confirmation, even if she could see the
mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt
their relationship.
Not a rustle of the housekeeper’s dress, not a gesture, not a word
betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, all uncon-
scious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions.
But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs. Bagnet under-

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stands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of hope; of

inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return since this stal-
wart man was a stripling; of a better son loved less, and this son loved
so fondly and so proudly; and they speak in such touching language
that Mrs. Bagnet’s eyes brim up with tears and they run glistening
down her sun-brown face.
“George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!”
The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls
down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether
in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands
together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them
towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.
“My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my
favourite still, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown
such a man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what
I knew he must be, if it pleased God he was alive!”
She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. All
that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the whit-
ened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes with her
serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old
girls as she is.
“Mother,” says the trooper when they are more composed, “for-
give me first of all, for I know my need of it.”
Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She always has done
it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will, these many years,
that he was her beloved son George. She has never believed any ill of him,
never. If she had died without this happiness—and she is an old woman
now and can’t look to live very long—she would have blessed him with
her last breath, if she had had her senses, as her beloved son George.
“Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have my
reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a pur-
pose in me too. When I left home I didn’t care much, mother—I am
afraid not a great deal—for leaving; and went away and ‘listed, harum-
scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, no not I,
and that nobody cared for me.”
The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, but
there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of

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expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in which
he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob.
“So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I
had ‘listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one
time I thought I would write home next year, when I might be better
off; and when that year was out, I thought I would write home next
year, when I might be better off; and when that year was out again,
perhaps I didn’t think much about it. So on, from year to year,
through a service of ten years, till I began to get older, and to ask
myself why should I ever write.”
“I don’t find any fault, child—but not to ease my mind, George?
Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?”
This almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself up
with a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat.
“Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small
consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you, re-
spected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chance North
Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and famous.
There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made like him, but
self-unmade—all my earlier advantages thrown away, all my little learn-
ing unlearnt, nothing picked up but what unfitted me for most things
that I could think of. What business had I to make myself known?
After letting all that time go by me, what good could come of it? The
worst was past with you, mother. I knew by that time (being a man)
how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me;
and the pain was over, or was softened down, and I was better in your
mind as it was.”
The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his
powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.
“No, I don’t say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be
so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dear mother,
some good might have come of it to myself—and there was the
meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would have
purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to Chesney
Wold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother’s
family together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do
something for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But how

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could any of you feel sure of me when I couldn’t so much as feel sure
of myself? How could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a
discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance
and a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? How could I
look my brother’s children in the face and pretend to set them an
example—I, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and
been the grief and unhappiness of my mother’s life? ‘No, George.’
Such were my words, mother, when I passed this in review before
me: ‘You have made your bed. Now, lie upon it.’”
Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head at
the old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, “I told
you so!” The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her interest in
the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke between the shoul-
ders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards repeats, at inter-
vals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, never failing, after the admin-
istration of each of these remonstrances, to resort to the whitened
wall and the grey cloak again.
“This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my
best amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it.
And I should have done it (though I have been to see you more than
once down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for
my old comrade’s wife here, who I find has been too many for me.
But I thank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my
heart and might.”
To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.
And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own
dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happy
close of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that he must
be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and influence,
that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be got,
that he must act in this serious plight as he shall be advised to act and
must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise to think
only of his poor old mother’s anxiety and suffering until he is re-
leased, or he will break her heart.
“Mother, ’tis little enough to consent to,” returns the trooper,
stopping her with a kiss; “tell me what I shall do, and I’ll make a
late beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you’ll take care of my mother,

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I know?”
A very hard poke from the old girl’s umbrella.
“If you’ll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss
Summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they
will give her the best advice and assistance.”
“And, George,” says the old lady, “we must send with all haste for
your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me—out in the
world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don’t know much of
it myself—and will be of great service.”
“Mother,” returns the trooper, “is it too soon to ask a favour?”
“Surely not, my dear.”
“Then grant me this one great favour. Don’t let my brother know.”
“Not know what, my dear?”
“Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can’t bear it; I can’t make up
my mmd to it. He has proved himself so different from me and has
done so much to raise himself while I’ve been soldiering that I haven’t
brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and under
this charge. How could a man like him be expected to have any
pleasure in such a discovery? It’s impossible. No, keep my secret from
him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserve and keep my
secret from my brother, of all men.”
“But not always, dear George?”
“Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all—though I may come
to ask that too—but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it’s ever
broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could wish,”
says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, “to break it myself
and be governed as to advancing or retreating by the way in which
he seems to take it.”
As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the depth
of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet’s face, his mother yields her im-
plicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her kindly.
“In all other respects, my dear mother, I’ll be as tractable and obedient
as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now I am ready even
for the lawyers. I have been drawing up,” he glances at his writing on the
table, “an exact account of what I knew of the deceased and how I came
to be involved in this unfortunate affair. It’s entered, plain and regular,
like an orderly-book; not a word in it but what’s wanted for the facts. I

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did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to
say anything in my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have
no longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done, I
give my promise not to have any.”
Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time
being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and
again the old lady hangs upon her son’s neck, and again and again the
trooper holds her to his broad chest.
“Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?”
“I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I have
some business there that must be looked to directly,” Mrs. Rouncewell
answers.
“Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But
of course I know you will. Why should I ask it!”
Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.
“Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.
Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the
hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten thousand
pound in gold, my dear!” So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old
girl’s tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.
No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce
Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home. Jump-
ing out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion and handing
Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges
off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and
falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.
My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference
with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is
looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so
leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs. Rouncewell.
What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?
“Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word
with you?”
What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman
tremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often thought,
why does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange
mistrust?

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“What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath.”

“Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son—my youngest,
who went away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison.”
“For debt?”
“Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful.”
“For what is he in prison then?”
“Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as—
as I am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn.”
What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why
does she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?
“Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You
must have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive
me. I was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it.
But think of my dear son wrongfully accused.”
“I do not accuse him.”
“No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in dan-
ger. Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to clear
him, say it!”
What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in the
person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust? Her
Lady’s handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear.
“My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my
son in my old age, and the step upon the Ghost’s Walk was so con-
stant and so solemn that I never heard the like in all these years.
Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through
your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it fell dark last
night, my Lady, I got this letter.”
“What letter is it?”
“Hush! Hush!” The housekeeper looks round and answers in a fright-
ened whisper, “My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I don’t
believe what’s written in it, I know it can’t be true, I am sure and
certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and you must have
a heart to pity me. If you know of anything that is not known to
others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any clue at all, and any
reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Lady, think of
me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known! This is the most I
consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your

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own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your
friends; and all who admire you—and all do—as a beautiful and el-
egant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can’t be
approached close. My Lady, you may have some proud or angry rea-
sons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray, oh,
pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been passed in this
family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to clear my son! My
Lady, my good Lady,” the old housekeeper pleads with genuine sim-
plicity, “I am so humble in my place and you are by nature so high and
distant that you may not think what I feel for my child, but I feel so
much that I have come here to make so bold as to beg and pray you
not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or justice at this
fearful time!”
Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the
letter from her hand.
“Am I to read this?”
“When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering
the most that I consider possible.”
“I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can
affect your son. I have never accused him.”
“My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation
after reading the letter.”
The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth
she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the sight of
the venerable figure suing to her with such strong earnestness would have
moved her to great compassion. But so long accustomed to suppress
emotion and keep down reality, so long schooled for her own purposes
in that destructive school which shuts up the natural feelings of the heart
like flies in amber and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the
good and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the sense-
less, she had subdued even her wonder until now.
She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed
account of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the
floor, shot through the heart; and underneath is written her own
name, with the word “murderess” attached.
It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the ground
she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before

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her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy. The words
have probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her
head before she begins to understand them.
“Let him come in!”
He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken
from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr.
Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared,
proud, chilling state.
“Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit
from one who has never been welcome to your ladyship”—which he
don’t complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has
been any particular reason on the face of things why he should be—
“but I hope when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will
not find fault with me,” says Mr. Guppy.
“Do so.”
“Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship,”
Mr. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet
at his feet, “that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly men-
tioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on
my ‘eart until erased by circumstances over which I had no control,
communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your
ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps what-
ever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson’s
wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances
over which I have no control), I consequently never
expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your lady-
ship again.”
And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.
“And yet I am here now,” Mr. Guppy admits. “My object being to
communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I
am here.”
He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. “Nor
can I,” Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, “too
particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that it’s no
personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no interested views
of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for my promise to
Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred—I, in point of fact,

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shouldn’t have darkened these doors again, but should have seen ‘em
further first.”
Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his
hair with both hands.
“Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time
I was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and
whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time
apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call sharp
practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely difficult
for me to be sure that I hadn’t inadvertently led up to something
contrary to Miss Summerson’s wishes. Self-praise is no recommen-
dation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man of
business neither.”
Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immedi-
ately withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.
“Indeed, it has been made so hard,” he goes on, “to have any idea
what that party was up to in combination with others that until the
loss which we all deplore I was gravelled—an expression which your
ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to consider
tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise—a name by which I
refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not
acquainted with—got to be so close and double-faced that at times it
wasn’t easy to keep one’s hands off his ‘ead. However, what with the
exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual
friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic
turn and has your ladyship’s portrait always hanging up in his room),
I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put
your ladyship upon your guard. First, will your ladyship allow me to
ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I
don’t mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as
Miss Barbary’s old servant, or as a person without the use of his
lower extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?”
“No!”
“Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and
have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited
at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an hour’s
turn afterwards to avoid them.”

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“What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not

understand you. What do you mean?”
“Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be
no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep
my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small
has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that
those letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not de-
stroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be
blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to
have been here this morning to make money of it. And that the
money is made, or making.”
Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.
“Your ladyship, you know best whether there’s anything in what I say
or whether there’s nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to
Miss Summerson’s wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I
had begun to do, as far as possible; that’s sufficient for me. In case I
should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your guard when
there’s no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should hope, to outlive
my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation.
I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there’s no
danger of your ever being waited on by me again.”
She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but
when he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.
“Where is Sir Leicester?”
Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.
“Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?”
Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them,
which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.
So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her
husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published—may be
spreading while she thinks about it—and in addition to the thunder-
bolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is denounced
by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.
Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him
dead. Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation
comes upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when
she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she

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may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon be-
fore merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as if the
hangman’s hands were at her neck.
She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all
wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. She
rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and rocks and
moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If she really were
the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment, more intense.
For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,
however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been
closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure, preventing her
from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those consequences
would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment the
figure was laid low—which always happens when a murder is done;
so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watch before her, and
she used to think, “if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old
man and take him from my way!” it was but wishing that all he held
against her in his hand might be flung to the winds and chance-sown
in many places. So, too, with the wicked relief she has felt in his
death. What was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch re-
moved, and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments,
each crushing and mangling piecemeal!
Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that
from this pursuer, living or dead—obdurate and imperturbable be-
fore her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and
imperturbable in his coffin-bed—there is no escape but in death.
Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her dread, re-
morse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even her strength
of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a
mighty wind.
She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and leaves
them on her table:

If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I am

wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent of
nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge. He
prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to

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you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in the
garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him and make
one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful suspense on
which I have been racked by him, you do not know how long, but
would mercifully strike next morning.
I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, but
there was no reply, and I came home.
I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, in
your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on
whom you have wasted a most generous devotion—who avoids you
only with a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from
herself—and who writes this last adieu.

She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,
listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens
and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.

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CHAPTER LVI

Pursuit
IMPASSIVE, AS BEHOVES ITS HIGH BREEDING, the Dedlock town house
stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives
no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages rattle,
doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient charmers
with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly
bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating
creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together, dazzle the eyes
of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily swinging carriages
guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into
downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious Mercuries
bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats broadwise, a spectacle
for the angels.
The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass
before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the fair,
being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding
that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at
length to repair to the library for change of scene. Her gentle tapping
at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in; seeing
no one there, takes possession.
The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the
ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which impels
her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle about with
a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every description.
Certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity of hov-
ering over her kinsman’s letters and papers like a bird, taking a short
peck at this document and a blink with her head on one side at that

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document, and hopping about from table to table with her glass at
her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner. In the course of these
researches she stumbles over something, and turning her glass in that
direction, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.
Volumnia’s pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation
of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion.
Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors are
sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all directions, but not found.
Nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell. Her letter
to Sir Leicester is discovered on her table, but it is doubtful yet whether
he has not received another missive from another world requiring to
be personally answered, and all the living languages, and all the dead,
are as one to him.
They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan,
and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit,
the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his stertor-
ous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the
candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when this change
begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even
his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.
He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, some-
what infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. He
lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit
shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so
long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to man-
kind of any word he said that his words really had come to sound as if
there were something in them. But now he can only whisper, and what
he whispers sounds like what it is—mere jumble and jargon.
His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It is
the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it. After
vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes signs
for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot at first understand
him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants and
brings in a slate.
After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand
that is not his, “Chesney Wold?”
No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the
library this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to come
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to London and is able to attend upon him.

“It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. You
will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All the gentlemen say
so.” This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.
After making a survey of the room and looking with particular atten-
tion all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, “My Lady.”
“My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and
don’t know of your illness yet.”
He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They all try
to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. On their
looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate
once more and writes “My Lady. For God’s sake, where?” And makes
an imploring moan.
It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady
Dedlock’s letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise.
She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal. Having read it
twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen
and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of relapse or into a swoon,
and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his faithful
and attached old servant’s arm. The doctors know that he is best
with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.
The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to
write he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction
at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he must go mad in
the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he labours
of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. He has written the letter
B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in the height of his misery, he
puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank
heaven! That’s his meaning.
Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall he
come up?
There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester’s burning
wish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of
every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket
appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallen from his
high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’m sorry to see you like this. I
hope you’ll cheer up. I’m sure you will, on account of the family
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credit.”
Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his face
while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket’s eye as
he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is still glanc-
ing over the words, he indicates, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I
understand you.”
Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. “Full forgiveness. Find—” Mr. Bucket
stops his hand.
“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’ll find her. But my search
after her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost.”
With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock’s
look towards a little box upon a table.
“Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Open it
with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? to be sure.
Take the notes out? So I will. Count ‘em? That’s soon done. Twenty
and thirty’s fifty, and twenty’s seventy, and fifty’s one twenty, and
forty’s one sixty. Take ‘em for expenses? That I’ll do, and render an
account of course. Don’t spare money? No I won’t.”
The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket’s interpretation on all these
heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, who holds the
light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he starts up,
furnished for his journey.
“You’re George’s mother, old lady; that’s about what you are, I
believe?” says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and button-
ing his coat.
“Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.”
“So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now.
Well, then, I’ll tell you something. You needn’t be distressed no more.
Your son’s all right. Now, don’t you begin a-crying, because what
you’ve got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and
you won’t do that by crying. As to your son, he’s all right, I tell you;
and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you’re the same. He’s dis-
charged honourable; that’s about what he is; with no more imputa-
tion on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one,
I’ll bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He con-
ducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he’s a fine-
made man, and you’re a fine-made old lady, and you’re a mother and
son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan. Sir
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 Dickens

Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you’ve trusted to me I’ll go through

with. Don’t you be afraid of my turing out of my way, right or left,
or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in
search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, and these
family affairs smoothed over—as, Lord, many other family affairs
equally has been, and equally wlll be, to the end of time.”
With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out,
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night in
quest of the fugitive.
His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock’s rooms and look all
over them for any trifling indication that may help him. The rooms are
in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light in his hand,
holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental inventory of the
many delicate objects so curiously at variance with himself, would be to
see a sight—which nobody does see, as he is particular to lock himself in.
“A spicy boudoir, this,” says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. “Must have
cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she
must have been hard put to it!”
Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and
jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, and
moralizes thereon.
“One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and
getting myself up for almac’s,” says Mr. Bucket. “I begin to think I
must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it.”
Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner
drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it can scarcely
feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a white hand-
kerchief.
“Hum! Let’s have a look at you,” says Mr. Bucket, putting down
the light. “What should you be kept by yourself for? What’s your
motive? Are you her ladyship’s property, or somebody else’s? You’ve
got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?”
He finds it as he speaks, “Esther Summerson.”
“Oh!” says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. “Come,
I’ll take you.”

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He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has

carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, glides
away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the street. With a
glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir Leicester’s room,
he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse
for his money, and directs to be driven to the shooting gallery. Mr.
Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses, but he lays
out a little money on the principal events in that line, and generally
sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark that when he
sees a horse as can go, he knows him.
His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering
over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his
keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the
midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where
people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he
rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the
snow lies thin—for something may present itself to assist him, any-
where—he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he
stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.
“Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I’ll be back.”
He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking
his pipe.
“I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through,
my lad. I haven’t a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman.
Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died—that was the
name, I know—all right—where does she live?”
The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address,
near Oxford Street.
“You won’t repent it, George. Good night!”
He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by
the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again,
and gets out in a cloud of steam again.
Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to
bed, rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and
comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.
“Don’t be alarmed, sir.” In a moment his visitor is confidential
with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand

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upon the lock. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector
Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson’s.
Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock’s, quarter of
an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You
know Lady Dedlock?”
“Yes.”
“There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come
out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit—apoplexy or pa-
ralysis—and couldn’t be brought to, and precious time has been lost.
Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him
that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!”
Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.
“I don’t know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there’s more and
more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I’d give a hundred
pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. Now, Mr.
Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to fol-
low her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have
money and full power, but I want something else. I want Miss
Summerson.”
Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, “Miss Summerson?”
“Now, Mr. Jarndyce”—Mr. Bucket has read his face with the great-
est attention all along—”I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane
heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don’t often happen. If
ever delay was dangerous, it’s dangerous now; and if ever you couldn’t
afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the time. Eight or ten
hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred pound apiece at least, have been
lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am
Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest that’s heavy on her, she has upon
her, as she believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she,
being in ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has com-
municated to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in
company with a young lady, answering to the description of a young
lady that she has a tenderness for—I ask no question, and I say no
more than that—she will give me credit for being friendly. Let me
come up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of putting
that young lady for’ard, and I’ll save her and prevail with her if she is
alive. Let me come up with her alone—a hard matter—and I’ll do my

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best, but I don’t answer for what the best may be. Time flies; it’s get-
ting on for one o’clock. When one strikes, there’s another hour gone,
and it’s worth a thousand pound now instead of a hundred.”
This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be ques-
tioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks to
Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on his usual
principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping
his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking about in the
gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very little time Mr.
Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson will join
him directly and place herself under his protection to accompany
him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval
and awaits her coming at the door.
There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and
wide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets;
many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying under hay-
stacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them. Other solitar-
ies he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over; and in shadowed
places down by the river’s level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object
drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a drowning
hold on his attention.
Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds the hand-
kerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with an enchanted power
to bring before him the place where she found it and the night-
landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child, would he
descry her there? On the waste where the brick-kilns are burning
with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched huts in
which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind, where the
clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the gaunt blind
horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of human tor-
ture—traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a lonely figure
with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the
wind, and cast out, it would seem, from all companionship. It is the
figure of a woman, too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such
clothes ever came through the hall and out at the great door of the
Dedlock mansion.

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 Dickens

CHAPTER LVII

Esther’s Narrative
I HAD GONE TO BED and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at the
door of my room and begged me to get up directly. On my hurrying
to speak to him and learn what had happened, he told me, after a word
or two of preparation, that there had been a discovery at Sir Leicester
Dedlock’s. That my mother had fled, that a person was now at our
door who was empowered to convey to her the fullest assurances of
affectionate protection and forgiveness if he could possibly find her,
and that I was sought for to accompany him in the hope that my
entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed. Something to this gen-
eral purpose I made out, but I was thrown into such a tumult of alarm,
and hurry and distress, that in spite of every effort I could make to
subdue my agitation, I did not seem, to myself, fully to recover my
right mind until hours had passed.
But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking Char-
ley or any one and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the person
entrusted with the secret. In taking me to him my guardian told me
this, and also explained how it was that he had come to think of me.
Mr. Bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my guardian’s candle, read
to me in the hall a letter that my mother had left upon her table; and
I suppose within ten minutes of my having been aroused I was sit-
ting beside him, rolling swiftly through the streets.
His manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he explained
to me that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer,
without confusion, a few questions that he wished to ask me. These
were, chiefly, whether I had had much communication with my
mother (to whom he only referred as Lady Dedlock), when and where

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I had spoken with her last, and how she had become possessed of my
handkerchief. When I had satisfied him on these points, he asked me
particularly to consider—taking time to think—whether within my
knowledge there was any one, no matter where, in whom she might
be at all likely to confide under circumstances of the last necessity. I
could think of no one but my guardian. But by and by I mentioned
Mr. Boythorn. He came into my mind as connected with his old
chivalrous manner of mentioning my mother’s name and with what
my guardian had informed me of his engagement to her sister and
his unconscious connexion with her unhappy story.
My companion had stopped the driver while we held this
conversation, that we might the better hear each other. He now told
him to go on again and said to me, after considering within himself for
a few moments, that he had made up his mind how to proceed. He
was quite willing to tell me what his plan was, but I did not feel clear
enough to understand it.
We had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in
a by-street at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. Mr. Bucket
took me in and sat me in an armchair by a bright fire. It was now
past one, as I saw by the clock against the wall. Two police officers,
looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all like people who
were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk; and the place seemed
very quiet altogether, except for some beating and calling out at dis-
tant doors underground, to which nobody paid any attention.
A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom
he whispered his instructions, went out; and then the two others
advised together while one wrote from Mr. Bucket’s subdued dicta-
tion. It was a description of my mother that they were busy with, for
Mr. Bucket brought it to me when it was done and read it in a
whisper. It was very accurate indeed.
The second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied it
out and called in another man in uniform (there were several in an
outer room), who took it up and went away with it. All this was
done with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment;
yet nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper was sent out upon
its travels, the two officers resumed their former quiet work of writ-
ing with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thoughtfully came and warmed

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the soles of his boots, first one and then the other, at the fire.
“Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson?” he asked me as his
eyes met mine. “It’s a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be
out in.”
I told him I cared for no weather and was warmly clothed.
“It may be a long job,” he observed; “but so that it ends well, never
mind, miss.”
“I pray to heaven it may end well!” said I.
He nodded comfortingly. “You see, whatever you do, don’t you go
and fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anything that may
happen, and it’ll be the better for you, the better for me, the better for
Lady Dedlock, and the better for Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.”
He was really very kind and gentle, and as he stood before the fire
warming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefinger, I felt a
confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not yet a quar-
ter to two when I heard horses’ feet and wheels outside. “Now, Miss
Summerson,” said he, “we are off, if you please!”
He gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me
out, and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion
and post horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in and took his own seat on
the box. The man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equi-
page then handed him up a dark lantern at his request, and when he
had given a few directions to the driver, we rattled away.
I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled with great
rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon lost all idea
where we were, except that we had crossed and re-crossed the river,
and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying, waterside, dense
neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered by docks and
basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, and masts of ships.
At length we stopped at the corner of a little slimy turning, which
the wind from the river, rushing up it, did not purify; and I saw my
companion, by the light of his lantern, in conference with several
men who looked like a mixture of police and sailors. Against the
mouldering wall by which they stood, there was a bill, on which I
could discern the words, “Found Drowned”; and this and an inscrip-
tion about drags possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed
forth in our visit to that place.

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I had no need to remind myself that I was not there by the

indulgence of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties of the
search, or to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. I
remained quiet, but what I suffered in that dreadful spot I never can
forget. And still it was like the horror of a dream. A man yet dark
and muddy, in long swollen sodden boots and a hat like them, was
called out of a boat and whispered with Mr. Bucket, who went away
with him down some slippery steps—as if to look at something
secret that he had to show. They came back, wiping their hands upon
their coats, after turning over something wet; but thank God it was
not what I feared!
After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody
seemed to know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and
left me in the carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his
horses to warm himself. The tide was coming in, as I judged from
the sound it made, and I could hear it break at the end of the alley
with a little rush towards me. It never did so—and I thought it did
so, hundreds of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter of
an hour, and probably was less—but the thought shuddered through
me that it would cast my mother at the horses’ feet.
Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant,
darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. “Don’t you be
alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down here,”
he said, turning to me. “I only want to have everything in train and
to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, my lad!”
We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had taken
note of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, but
judging from the general character of the streets. We called at another
office or station for a minute and crossed the river again. During the
whole of this time, and during the whole search, my companion,
wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a single mo-
ment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, if possible, to be
more on the alert than before. He stood up to look over the parapet,
he alighted and went back after a shadowy female figure that flitted
past us, and he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a face
that made my heart die within me. The river had a fearful look, so
overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat lines

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of shore—so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of sub-

stance and shadow; so death-like and mysterious. I have seen it many
times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free from
the impressions of that journey. In my memory the lights upon the
bridge are always burning dim, the cutting wind is eddying round
the homeless woman whom we pass, the monotonous wheels are
whirling on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks
palely in upon me—a face rising out of the dreaded water.
Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to
leave houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way to
Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we changed
and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open country was
white with snow, though none was falling then.
“An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,” said
Mr. Bucket cheerfully.
“Yes,” I returned. “Have you gathered any intelligence?”
“None that can be quite depended on as yet,” he answered, “but
it’s early times as yet.”
He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was
a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then much
frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-
keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, and
making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he
took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steady
look, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone, “Get
on, my lad!”
With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o’clock and
we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of
one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.
“Drink it, Miss Summerson, it’ll do you good. You’re beginning
to get more yourself now, ain’t you?”
I thanked him and said I hoped so.
“You was what you may call stunned at first,” he returned; “and Lord,
no wonder! Don’t speak loud, my dear. It’s all right. She’s on ahead.”
I don’t know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to
make, but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.

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“Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I

heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but couldn’t
make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off. Picked her up at
one place, and dropped her at another; but she’s before us now, safe.
Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler. Now, if you wasn’t brought
up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can catch half a crown
in your t’other hand. One, two, three, and there you are! Now, my
lad, try a gallop!”
We were soon in Saint Albans and alighted a little before day, when
I was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of
the night and really to believe that they were not a dream. Leaving
the carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses to be ready,
my companion gave me his arm, and we went towards home.
“As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see,” he ob-
served, “I should like to know whether you’ve been asked for by any
stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndyce has. I
don’t much expect it, but it might be.”
As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye—
the day was now breaking—and reminded me that I had come down
it one night, as I had reason for remembering, with my little servant
and poor Jo, whom he called Toughey.
I wondered how he knew that.
“When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know,”
said Mr. Bucket.
Yes, I remembered that too, very well.
“That was me,” said Mr. Bucket.
Seeing my surprise, he went on, “I drove down in a gig that after-
noon to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels when
you came out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of you and
your little maid going up when I was walking the horse down. Mak-
ing an inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard what
company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields to look
for him when I observed you bringing him home here.”
“Had he committed any crime?” I asked.
“None was charged against him,” said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting
off his hat, “but I suppose he wasn’t over-particular. No. What I
wanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of

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Lady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than
welcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by the
deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn’t do, at any sort of price,
to have him playing those games. So having warned him out of Lon-
don, I made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it now he
WAS away, and go farther from it, and maintain a bright look-out
that I didn’t catch him coming back again.”
“Poor creature!” said I.
“Poor enough,” assented Mr. Bucket, “and trouble enough, and
well enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly
turned on my back when I found him taken up by your establish-
ment, I do assure you.
I asked him why. “Why, my dear?” said Mr. Bucket. “Naturally
there was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been
born with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant over.”
Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in con-
fusion at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than
enable me to understand that he entered into these particulars to
divert me. With the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke
to me of indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one
object that we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned
in at the garden-gate.
“Ah!” said Mr. Bucket. “Here we are, and a nice retired place it is.
Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tap-
ping, that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled. They’re
early with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good servants. But what you’ve
always got to be careful of with servants is who comes to see ‘em; you never
know what they’re up to if you don’t know that. And another thing, my
dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the kitchen-door, you give
that young man in charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-
house with an unlawful purpose.”
We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and
closely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to the
windows.
“Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same
room when he’s on a visit here, Miss Summerson?” he inquired,
glancing at Mr. Skimpole’s usual chamber.

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“You know Mr. Skimpole!” said I.

“What do you call him again?” returned Mr. Bucket, bending down
his ear. “Skimpole, is it? I’ve often wondered what his name might
be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet Jacob?”
“Harold,” I told him.
“Harold. Yes. He’s a queer bird is Harold,” said Mr. Bucket,
eyeing me with great expression.
“He is a singular character,” said I.
“No idea of money,” observed Mr. Bucket. “He takes it, though!”
I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket
knew him.
“Why, now I’ll tell you, Miss Summerson,” he replied. “Your mind
will be all the better for not running on one point too continually,
and I’ll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out to me where
Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come to the door
and ask for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so
first, if any such was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of
gravel at that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold
opens it and I have had a look at him, thinks I, you’re the man for
me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the
family after they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be
regretted that charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and
then, when I pretty well understood his ways, I said I should con-
sider a fypunnote well bestowed if I could relieve the premises of
Toughey without causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting
up his eyebrows in the gayest way, ‘It’s no use menfioning a fypunnote
to me, my friend, because I’m a mere child in such matters and have
no idea of money.’ Of course I understood what his taking it so easy
meant; and being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped
the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs
and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, and says, ‘But I don’t
know the value of these things. What am I to do with this?’ ‘Spend
it, sir,’ says I. ‘But I shall be taken in,’ he says, ‘they won’t give me the
right change, I shall lose it, it’s no use to me.’ Lord, you never saw
such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where to find
Toughey, and I found him.”
I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole

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towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish

innocence.
“Bounds, my dear?” returned Mr. Bucket. “Bounds? Now, Miss
Summerson, I’ll give you a piece of advice that your husband will
find useful when you are happily married and have got a family about
you. Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can
be in all concerning money, look well after your own money, for
they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person pro-
claims to you ‘In worldly matters I’m a child,’ you consider that that
person is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you
have got that person’s number, and it’s Number One. Now, I am not
a poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a
company, but I’m a practical one, and that’s my experience. So’s this
rule. Fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. I never
knew it fail. No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution to
the unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and
so go back to our business.”
I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any more
than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The whole
household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time
in the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not di-
minished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. It could
not be doubted that this was the truth.
“Then, Miss Summerson,” said my companion, “we can’t be too
soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most
inquiries there I leave to you, if you’ll be so good as to make ‘em.
The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your
own way.”
We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found
it shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who
knew me and who came out when I was trying to make some one
hear informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived
together in another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood
on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where
the long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing to
this place, which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door
stood ajar, I pushed it open.

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There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying
asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead
child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the
men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a
morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr.
Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman
evidently knew him.
I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which
I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool
near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now
that I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not
familiar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very
difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.
“Liz,” said I, “I have come a long way in the night and through the
snow to inquire after a lady—”
“Who has been here, you know,” Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing
the whole group with a composed propitiatory face; “that’s the lady
the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.”
“And who told you as there was anybody here?” inquired Jenny’s
husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now
measured him with his eye.
“A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen
waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,” Mr. Bucket
immediately answered.
“He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,” growled
the man.
“He’s out of employment, I believe,” said Mr. Bucket apologeti-
cally for Michael Jackson, “and so gets talking.”
The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with
her hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would
have spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this
attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a
lump of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other,
struck the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her with
an oath to mind her own business at any rate and sit down.
“I should like to have seen Jenny very much,” said I, “for I am sure
she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very

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anxious indeed—you cannot think how anxious—to overtake. Will

Jenny be here soon? Where is she?”
The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with an-
other oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it
to Jenny’s husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silence
the latter turned his shaggy head towards me.
“I’m not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you’ve heerd
me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and it’s curious they
can’t let my place be. There’d be a pretty shine made if I was to go a-
wisitin them, I think. Howsoever, I don’t so much complain of you as of
some others, and I’m agreeable to make you a civil answer, though I give
notice that I’m not a-going to be drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be
here soon? No she won’t. Where is she? She’s gone up to Lunnun.”
“Did she go last night?” I asked.
“Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night,” he answered with
a sulky jerk of his head.
“But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say
to her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind
as to tell me,” said I, “for I am in great distress to know.”
“If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm—
” the woman timidly began.
“Your master,” said her husband, muttering an imprecation with
slow emphasis, “will break your neck if you meddle with wot don’t
concern you.”
After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning
to me again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.
“Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the
lady come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I’ll tell you wot the
lady said to her. She said, ‘You remember me as come one time to
talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You
remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher
wot she had left?’ Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well, then,
wos that young lady up at the house now? No, she warn’t up at the
house now. Well, then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all
alone, strange as we might think it, and could she rest herself where
you’re a setten for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then
she went—it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might

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be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain’t got no watches here to

know the time by, nor yet clocks. Where did she go? I don’t know
where she go’d. She went one way, and Jenny went another; one
went right to Lunnun, and t’other went right from it. That’s all
about it. Ask this man. He heerd it all, and see it all. He knows.”
The other man repeated, “That’s all about it.”
“Was the lady crying?” I inquired.
“Devil a bit,” returned the first man. “Her shoes was the worse, and her
clothes was the worse, but she warn’t—not as I see.”
The woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground.
Her husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept his
hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to execute
his threat if she disobeyed him.
“I hope you will not object to my asking your wife,” said I, “how
the lady looked.”
“Come, then!” he gruffly cried to her. “You hear what she says.
Cut it short and tell her.”
“Bad,” replied the woman. “Pale and exhausted. Very bad.”
“Did she speak much?”
“Not much, but her voice was hoarse.”
She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave.
“Was she faint?” said I. “Did she eat or drink here?”
“Go on!” said the husband in answer to her look. “Tell her and cut
it short.”
“She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread
and tea. But she hardly touched it.”
“And when she went from here,” I was proceeding, when Jenny’s
husband impatiently took me up.
“When she went from here, she went right away nor’ard by the
high road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn’t so.
Now, there’s the end. That’s all about it.”
I glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen
and was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me,
and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went
out, and he looked full at her.
“Now, Miss Summerson,” he said to me as we walked quickly away.
“They’ve got her ladyship’s watch among ‘em. That’s a positive fact.”

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“You saw it?” I exclaimed.

“Just as good as saw it,” he returned. “Else why should he talk
about his ‘twenty minutes past’ and about his having no watch to tell
the time by? Twenty minutes! He don’t usually cut his time so fine as
that. If he comes to half-hours, it’s as much as he does. Now, you
see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. I think she
gave it him. Now, what should she give it him for? What should she
give it him for?”
He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried
on, appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in
his mind.
“If time could be spared,” said Mr. Bucket, “which is the only
thing that can’t be spared in this case, I might get it out of that woman;
but it’s too doubtful a chance to trust to under present circumstances.
They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any fool knows that
a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and scarred and bruised
from head to foot, will stand by the husband that ill uses her through
thick and thin. There’s something kept back. It’s a pity but what we
had seen the other woman.”
I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I felt sure
would have resisted no entreaty of mine.
“It’s possible, Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Bucket, pondering on
it, “that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you,
and it’s possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It don’t
come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it’s on the cards.
Now, I don’t take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don’t see my way to the
usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Summerson, is
for’ard—straight ahead—and keeping everything quiet!”
We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to my
guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the carriage.
The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen coming, and
we were on the road again in a few minutes.
It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. The air
was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the fall
that we could see but a very little way in any direction. Although it
was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it churned—

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with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells—under the hoofs of

the horses into mire and water. They sometimes slipped and floun-
dered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a standstill
to rest them. One horse fell three times in this first stage, and trembled
so and was so shaken that the driver had to dismount from his saddle
and lead him at last.
I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervous
under those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that I had
an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yielding to my
companion’s better sense, however, I remained where I was. All this
time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in which he was
engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing
people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, run-
ning in to warm himself at every fire he saw, talking and drinking
and shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner,
wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose
time, and always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady
face and his business-like “Get on, my lad!”
When we were changing horses the next time, he came from the
stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping
off him—plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had
been doing frequently since we left Saint Albans—and spoke to me
at the carriage side.
“Keep up your spirits. It’s certainly true that she came on here,
Miss Summerson. There’s not a doubt of the dress by this time, and
the dress has been seen here.”
“Still on foot?” said I.
“Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the
point she’s aiming at, and yet I don’t like his living down in her own
part of the country neither.”
“I know so little,” said I. “There may be some one else nearer here,
of whom I never heard.”
“That’s true. But whatever you do, don’t you fall a-crying, my
dear; and don’t you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get
on, my lad!”
The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on early,
and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I had never

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seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the
ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of the time I had
been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period of great duration,
and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free from the
anxiety under which I then laboured.
As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion
lost confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside
people, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I
saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the
whole of one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to ask the
drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards us what passen-
gers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles that were in advance.
Their replies did not encourage him. He always gave me a reassuring
beck of his finger and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again,
but he seemed perplexed now when he
said, “Get on, my lad!”
At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the
track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was noth-
ing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it up for
another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here in an unac-
countable manner, and we had not come upon it since. This cor-
roborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to look at
direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for a quarter
of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was not to be
down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that
the next stage might set us right again.
The next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no new
clue. There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable sub-
stantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway before I
knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the car-
riage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the horses
were making ready, I thought it would be uncharitable to refuse.
They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.
It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways.
On one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlers
were unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy
carriage, and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which the sign

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was heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees.

Their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped
off in wet heaps while I stood at the window. Night was setting in,
and its bleakness was enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire
glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. As I looked among the
stems of the trees and followed the discoloured marks in the snow
where the thaw was sinking into it and undermining it, I thought of
the motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now
welcomed me and of my mother lying down in such a wood to die.
I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I remem-
bered that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that was
some little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the
fire, and then the comely landlady told me that I must travel no
further to-night, but must go to bed. But this put me into such a
tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her
words and compromised for a rest of half an hour.
A good endearing creature she was. She and her three fair girls, all
so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while
Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but I could not do it
when a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside, though
I was very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I could take some
toast and some hot negus, and as I really enjoyed that refreshment, it
made some recompense.
Punctual to the time, at the half-hour’s end the carriage came rum-
bling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed,
comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to faint any
more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all,
the youngest daughter—a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be
the first married, they had told me—got upon the carriage step, reached
in, and kissed me. I have never seen her, from that hour, but I think
of her to this hour as my friend.
The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright
and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and
again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went on
with toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than
they had been, and the stage was only nine miles. My companion
smoking on the box—I had thought at the last inn of begging him

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to do so when I saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortable

cloud of tobacco—was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and
up again when we came to any human abode or any human creature.
He had lighted his little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favourite
with him, for we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then
he turned it upon me to see that I was doing well. There was a fold-
ing-window to the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for it seemed
like shutting out hope.
We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not
recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change,
but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that
he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned
back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an
excited and quite different man.
“What is it?” said I, starting. “Is she here?”
“No, no. Don’t deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody’s here. But I’ve
got it!”
The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his breath
before he spoke to me.
“Now, Miss Summerson,” said he, beating his finger on the apron,
“don’t you be disappointed at what I’m a-going to do. You know me.
I’m Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We’ve come a long way;
never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!”
There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out
of the stables to know if he meant up or down.
“Up, I tell you! Up! Ain’t it English? Up!”
“Up?” said I, astonished. “To London! Are we going back?”
“Miss Summerson,” he answered, “back. Straight back as a die.
You know me. Don’t be afraid. I’ll follow the other, by G—”
“The other?” I repeated. “Who?”
“You called her Jenny, didn’t you? I’ll follow her. Bring those two
pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!”
“You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not abandon
her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know her to be in!”
said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.
“You are right, my dear, I won’t. But I’ll follow the other. Look

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alive here with them horses. Send a man for’ard in the saddle to the
next stage, and let him send another for’ard again, and order four on,
up, right through. My darling, don’t you be afraid!”
These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging
them caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering
to me than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusion, a
mounted man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses were
put to with great speed.
“My dear,” said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat and looking in
again, “—you’ll excuse me if I’m too familiar—don’t you fret and
worry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at
present; but you know me, my dear; now, don’t you?”
I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I of
deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right?
Could I not go forward by myself in search of—I grasped his hand
again in my distress and whispered it to him—of my own mother.
“My dear,” he answered, “I know, I know, and would I put
you wrong, do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know
me, don’t you?”
What could I say but yes!
“Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon
me for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Bar-
onet. Now, are you right there?”
“All right, sir!”
“Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!”
We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come,
tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up by
a waterwheel.

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CHAPTER LVIII

A Wintry Day and Night

Still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the Dedlock town house
carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur. There are
powdered heads from time to time in the little windows of the hall,
looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from the sky; and
in the same conservatory there is peach blossom turning itself exoti-
cally to the great hall fire from the nipping weather out of doors. It is
given out that my Lady has gone down into Lincolnshire, but is
expected to return presently.
Rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into
Lincolnshire. It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It knows
that that poor unfortunate man, Sir Leicester, has been sadly used. It
hears, my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. It makes the world
of five miles round quite merry. Not to know that there is some-
thing wrong at the Dedlocks’ is to augur yourself unknown. One of
the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is already ap-
prised of all the principal circumstances that will come out before
the Lords on Sir Leicester’s application for a bill of divorce.
At Blaze and Sparkle’s the jewellers and at Sheen and Gloss’s the
mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age, the
feature of the century. The patronesses of those establishments, al-
beit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicely weighed and measured there
as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly understood in
this new fashion by the rawest hand behind the counter. “Our people,
Mr. Jones,” said Blaze and Sparkle to the hand in question on engag-
ing him, “our people, sir, are sheep—mere sheep. Where two or three
marked ones go, all the rest follow. Keep those two or three in your

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eye, Mr. Jones, and you have the flock.” So, likewise, Sheen and
Gloss to their Jones, in reference to knowing where to have the fash-
ionable people and how to bring what they (Sheen and Gloss) choose
into fashion. On similar unerring principles, Mr. Sladdery the librar-
ian, and indeed the great farmer of gorgeous sheep, admits this very
day, “Why yes, sir, there certainly are reports concerning Lady Dedlock,
very current indeed among my high connexion, sir. You see, my high
connexion must talk about something, sir; and it’s only to get a subject
into vogue with one or two ladies I could name to make it go down
with the whole. Just what I should have done with those ladies, sir, in the
case of any novelty you had left to me to bring in, they have done of
themselves in this case through knowing Lady
Dedlock and being perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too, sir.
You’ll find, sir, that this topic will be very popular among my high
connexion. If it had been a speculation, sir, it would have brought money.
And when I say so, you may trust to my being right, sir, for I have made
it my business to study my high connexion and to be able to wind it up
like a clock, sir.”
Thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down into
Lincolnshire. By half-past five, post meridian, Horse Guards’ time, it
has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr. Stables, which
bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he has so long rested his
colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally is to the effect that although
he always knew she was the best-groomed woman in the stud, he had
no idea she was a bolter. It is immensely received in turf-circles.
At feasts and festivals also, in firmaments she has often graced, and
among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still the preva-
lent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it? Where was it? How
was it? She is discussed by her dear friends with all the genteelest slang
in vogue, with the last new word, the last new manner, the last new
drawl, and the perfection of polite indifference. A remarkable feature
of the theme is that it is found to be so inspiring that several people
come out upon it who never came out before—positively say things!
William Buffy carries one of these smartnesses from the place where he
dines down to the House, where the Whip for his party hands it about
with his snuff-box to keep men together who want to be off, with
such effect that the Speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into

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his own ear under the corner of his wig) cries, “Order at the bar!” three
times without making an impression.
And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her being
vaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines of Mr.
Sladdery’s high connexion, people who know nothing and ever did
know nothing about her, think it essential to their reputation to
pretend that she is their topic too, and to retail her at second-hand
with the last new word and the last new manner, and the last new
drawl, and the last new polite indifference, and all the rest of it, all at
second-hand but considered equal to new in inferior systems and to
fainter stars. If there be any man of letters, art,
or science among these little dealers, how noble in him to support
the feeble sisters on such majestic crutches!
So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion. How within it?
Sir Leicester, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though with difficulty
and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to rest, and they have
given him some opiate to lull his pain, for his old enemy is very hard
with him. He is never asleep, though sometimes he seems to fall into a
dull waking doze. He caused his bedstead to be moved out nearer to the
window when he heard it was such inclement weather, and his head to
be so adjusted that he could see the driving snow and sleet. He watches it
as it falls, throughout the whole wintry day.
Upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his hand
is at the pencil. The old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows what he
would write and whispers, “No, he has not come back yet, Sir Le-
icester. It was late last night when he went. He has been but a little
time gone yet.”
He withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snow
again until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so thick and
fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on the giddy
whirl of white flakes and icy blots.
He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is not yet
far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her rooms should
be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let there be good fires.
Let them know that she is expected. Please see to it yourself. He
writes to this purpose on his slate, and Mrs. Rouncewell with a heavy
heart obeys.

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“For I dread, George,” the old lady says to her son, who waits below to
keep her company when she has a little leisure, “I dread, my dear, that my
Lady will never more set foot within these walls.”
“That’s a bad presentiment, mother.”
“Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear.”
“That’s worse. But why, mother?”
“When I saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to me—and
I may say at me too—as if the step on the Ghost’s Walk had almost
walked her down.”
“Come, come! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother.”
“No I don’t, my dear. No I don’t. It’s going on for sixty year that I
have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it before. But it’s
breaking up, my dear; the great old Dedlock family is breaking up.”
“I hope not, mother.”
“I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester in
this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor too useless
to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place would
be. But the step on the Ghost’s Walk will walk my Lady down,
George; it has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her
and go on.”
“Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not.”
“Ah, so do I, George,” the old lady returns, shaking her head and
parting her folded hands. “But if my fears come true, and he has to
know it, who will tell him!”
“Are these her rooms?”
“These are my Lady’s rooms, just as she left them.”
“Why, now,” says the trooper, glancing round him and speaking in a
lower voice, “I begin to understand how you come to think as you do
think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they are
fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them, and that
person is away under any shadow, let alone being God knows where.”
He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one,
so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper
what your room and what mine must one day be. My Lady’s state
has a hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner
apartment, where Mr. Bucket last night made his secret perquisition,
the traces of her dresses and her ornaments, even the mirrors accus-

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tomed to reflect them when they were a portion of herself, have a

desolate and vacant air. Dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker
and colder in these deserted chambers than in many a hut that will
barely exclude the weather; and though the servants heap fires in the
grates and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens
that let their ruddy light
shoot through to the furthest corners, there is a heavy cloud upon
the rooms which no light will dispel.
The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are
complete, and then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs.
Rouncewell’s place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces and rouge
pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are but indifferent com-
forts to the invalid under present circumstances. Volumnia, not being
supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what is the matter, has
found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate observations and conse-
quently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of the
bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at her
kinsman’s eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of, “He is asleep.”
In disproof of which superfluous remark Sir Leicester has indignantly
written on the slate, “I am not.”
Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old house-
keeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed, sympathetically sigh-
ing. Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow and listens for the re-
turning steps that he expects. In the ears of his old servant, looking as
if she had stepped out of an old picture-frame to attend a summoned
Dedlock to another world, the silence is fraught with echoes of her
own words, “who will tell him!”
He has been under his valet’s hands this morning to be made pre-
sentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow. He is
propped with pillows, his grey hair is brushed in its usual manner, his
linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in a responsible dress-
ing-gown. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand. It is
necessary—less to his own dignity now perhaps than for her sake—
that he should be seen as little disturbed and as much himself as may
be. Women will talk, and Volumnia, though a Dedlock, is no excep-
tional case. He keeps her here, there is little doubt, to prevent her
talking somewhere else. He is very ill, but he makes his present stand

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against distress of mind and body most courageously.

The fair Volumnia, being one of those sprightly girls who cannot long
continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the dragon Bore-
dom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with a series of
undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to suppress those yawns by
any other process than conversation, she compliments Mrs. Rouncewell
on her son, declaring that he positively is one of the finest figures she ever
saw and as soldierly a looking person, she should think, as what’s his
name, her favourite Life Guardsman—the man she dotes on, the dearest
of creatures—who was killed at Waterloo.
Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise and stares
about him in such a confused way that Mrs. Rouncewell feels it
necesary to explain.
“Miss Dedlock don’t speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but my
youngest. I have found him. He has come home.”
Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. “George? Your son
George come home, Mrs. Rouncewell?”
The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. “Thank God. Yes, Sir Leicester.”
Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so
long gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes?
Does he think, “Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely after
this, there being fewer hours in her case than there are years in his?”
It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now, and
he does. In a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly enough to
be understood.
“Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell?”
“It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted your be-
ing well enough to be talked to of such things.”
Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little scream
that nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell’s son
and that she was not to have told. But Mrs. Rouncewell protests,
with warmth enough to swell the stomacher, that of course she would
have told Sir Leicester as soon as he got better.
“Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?” asks Sir Leicester.
Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor’s injunctions, replies, in London.
“Where in London?”
Mrs. Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the house.
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“Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly.”

The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir
Leicester, with such power of movement as he has, arranges himself
a little to receive him. When he has done so, he looks out again at
the falling sleet and snow and listens again for the returning steps.
A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in the street to deaden
the noises there, and she might be driven to the door perhaps with-
out his hearing wheels.
He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor sur-
prise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooper
son. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedside, makes his bow,
squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very heartily
ashamed of himself.
“Good heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!” exclaims Sir
Leicester. “Do you remember me, George?”
The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound from
that sound before he knows what he has said, but doing this and
being a little helped by his mother, he replies, “I must have a very bad
memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I failed to remember you.”
“When I look at you, George Rouncewell,” Sir Leicester observes
with difficulty, “I see something of a boy at Chesney Wold—I re-
member well—very well.”
He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then he
looks at the sleet and snow again.
“I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester,” says the trooper, “but would
you accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir
Leicester, if you would allow me to move you.”
“If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good.”
The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him,
and turns him with his face more towards the window. “Thank you.
You have your mother’s gentleness,” returns Sir Leicester, “and your
own strength. Thank you.”
He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietly
remains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.
“Why did you wish for secrecy?” It takes Sir Leicester some time
to ask this.
“Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I—I should
still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed—which I hope you
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will not be long—I should still hope for the favour of being al-
lowed to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations
not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not
very creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a vari-
ety of subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed, Sir
Leicester, that I am not much to boast of.”
“You have been a soldier,” observes Sir Leicester, “and a faithful one.”
George makes his military how. “As far as that goes, Sir Leicester, I
have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least I could do.”
“You find me,” says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted
towards him, “far from well, George Rouncewell.”
“I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester.”
“I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I have had
a sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens,” making an endeav-
our to pass one hand down one side, “and confuses,” touching his lips.
George, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow.
The different times when they were both young men (the trooper
much the younger of the two) and looked at one another down at
Chesney Wold arise before them both and soften both.
Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in his own
manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing into silence,
tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more. George, obser-
vant of the action, takes him in his arms again and places him as he
desires to be. “Thank you, George. You are another self to me. You
have often carried my spare gun at Chesney Wold, George. You are
familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very familiar.” He has
put Sir Leicester’s sounder arm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and
Sir Leicester is slow in drawing it away again as he says these words.
“I was about to add,” he presently goes on, “I was about to add,
respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a
slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I do not mean
that there was any difference between us (for there has been none),
but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances im-
portant only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while, of
my Lady’s society. She has found it necessary to make a journey—I
trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I make myself intelligible?
The words are not quite under my command in the manner of pro-

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nouncing them.”
Volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth be delivers him-
self with far greater plainness than could have been supposed possible
a minute ago. The effort by which he does so is written in the anx-
ious and labouring expression of his face. Nothing but the strength
of his purpose enables him to make it.
“Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence—and in the
presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose truth
and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son George,
who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in the home
of my ancestors at Chesney Wold—in case I should relapse, in case I
should not recover, in case I should lose both my speech and the
power of writing, though I hope for better things—”
The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest
agitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with
his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive.
“Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness—beginning,
Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly—that I am on unaltered terms
with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause whatever of complaint against
her. That I have ever had the strongest affection for her, and that I
retain it undiminished. Say this to herself, and to every one. If you ever
say less than this, you will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me.”
Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunc-
tions to the letter.
“My Lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished,
too superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is
surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Let it
be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of sound
mind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I have
made in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed upon her.
I am on unaltered terms with her, and I recall—having the full power
to do it if I were so disposed, as you see—no act I have done for her
advantage and happiness.”
His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it has
often had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it is serious and
affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his gallant shielding of
her, his generous conquest of his own wrong and his own pride for

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her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and true. Nothing less wor-
thy can be seen through the lustre of such qualities in the common-
est mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the best-born gentle-
man. In such a light both aspire alike, both rise alike, both children
of the dust shine equally.
Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillows
and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he again re-
sumes his watching of the weather and his attention to the muffled
sounds. In the rendering of those little services, and in the manner of
their acceptance, the trooper has become installed as necessary to him.
Nothing has been said, but it is quite understood. He falls a step or
two backward to be out of sight and mounts guard a little behind his
mother’s chair.
The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet into
which the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blaze begins
to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The gloom
augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the pertina-
cious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with their source
of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly like fiery fish
out of water—as they are. The world, which has been rumbling over
the straw and pulling at the bell, “to inquire,” begins to go home,
begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear friend with all the last new
modes, as already mentioned.
Now does Sir Leicester become worse, restless, uneasy, and in great
pain. Volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for do-
ing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, for it is not
yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too, as dark as it will be all night.
By and by she tries again. No! Put it out. It is not dark enough yet.
His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving to
uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.
“Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master,” she softly whispers, “I
must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging
and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness watching
and waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw the cur-
tains, and light the candles, and make things more comfortable about
you. The church-clocks will strike the hours just the same, Sir Le-
icester, and the night will pass away just the same. My Lady will

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come back, just the same.”

“I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak—and he has been so
long gone.”
“Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet.”
“But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time!”
He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.
She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light
upon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her.
Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, then gently
begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing at the dark
window looking out. Finally he tells her, with recovered self-command,
“As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for being confessed. It is
getting late, and they are not come. Light the room!” When it is lighted
and the weather shut out, it is only left to him to listen.
But they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightens
when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms
and being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor pretence as
it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up hope within him.
Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in the
streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood there are
none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into the
frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement. Upon
this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense silence is like
looking at intense darkness. If any distant sound be audible in this
case, it departs through the gloom like a feeble light in that, and all is
heavier than before.
The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to
go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell and
George keep watch in Sir Leicester’s room. As the night lags tardily
on—or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between two and
three o’clock—they find a restless craving on him to know more
about the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence George, patrolling
regularly every half-hour to the rooms so carefully looked after, ex-
tends his march to the hall-door, looks about him, and brings back
the best report he can make of the worst of nights, the sleet still
falling and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in icy sludge.
Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the stair-case—the

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second turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinly
room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Leicester ban-
ished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yard planted
with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black tea—is a
prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least among them, pos-
sibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income in the event, as
she expresses it, “of anything happening” to Sir Leicester. Anything,
in this sense, meaning one thing only; and that the last thing that can
happen to the consciousness of any baronet in the known world.
An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go to
bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but must
come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, and
her fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like a ghost,
particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious, prepared for
one who still does not return. Solitude under such circumstances
being not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended by her maid, who,
impressed from her own bed for that purpose, extremely cold, very
sleepy, and generally an injured maid as condemned by circumstances
to take office with a cousin, when she had resolved to be maid to
nothing less than ten thousand a year,
has not a sweet expression of countenance.
The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in the
course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and company
both to mistress and maid, which renders them very acceptable in the
small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard advancing, they both
make some little decorative preparation to receive him; at other times
they divide their watches into short scraps of oblivion and dialogues
not wholly free from acerbity, as to whether Miss Dedlock, sitting
with her feet upon the fender, was or was not falling into the fire when
rescued (to her great displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid.
“How is Sir Leicester now, Mr. George?” inquires Volumnia, ad-
justing her cowl over her head.
“Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low and ill,
and he even wanders a little sometimes.”
“Has he asked for me?” inquires Volumnia tenderly.
“Why, no, I can’t say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is
to say.”

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“This is a truly sad time, Mr. George.”

“It is indeed, miss. Hadn’t you better go to bed?”
“You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock,” quoth the maid
sharply.
But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, she may be
wanted at a moment’s notice. She never should forgive herself “if
anything was to happen” and she was not on the spot. She declines to
enter on the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes to
be there, and not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Leicester’s), but
staunchly declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumnia further
makes a merit of not having “closed an eye”—as if she had twenty or
thirty—though it is hard to reconcile this statement with her having
most indisputably opened two within five minutes.
But when it comes to four o’clock, and still the same blank,
Volumnia’s constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to
strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready for
the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact, how-
soever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of her, as
an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So when the trooper reap-
pears with his, “Hadn’t you better go to bed, miss?” and when the
maid protests, more sharply than before, “You had a deal better go to
bed, Miss Dedlock!” she meekly rises and says, “Do with me what
you think best!”
Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to
the door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly thinks
it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony. Accord-
ingly, these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his rounds, has
the house to himself.
There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico, from
the eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar,
drips the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, into the lintels of
the great door—under it, into the corners of the windows, into every
chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes and dies. It is falling
still; upon the roof, upon the skylight, even through the skylight,
and drip, drip, drip, with the regularity of the Ghost’s Walk, on the
stone floor below.
The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary gran-

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deur of a great house—no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold—

goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up his light
at arm’s length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within the last few
weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periods of his life
so strangely brought together across the wide intermediate space;
thinking of the murdered man whose image is fresh in his mind;
thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very rooms and
the tokens of whose recent presence are all here; thinking of the mas-
ter of the house upstairs and of the foreboding, “Who will tell him!”
he looks here and looks there, and reflects how he might see some-
thing now, which it would tax his boldness to walk up to, lay his
hand upon, and prove to be a fancy. But it is all blank, blank as the
darkness above and below, while he goes up the great staircase again,
blank as the oppressive silence.
“All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?”
“Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester.”
“No word of any kind?”
The trooper shakes his head.
“No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?”
But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down
without looking for an answer.
Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, George
Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long remain-
der of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his unex-
pressed wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtains at the
first late break of day. The day comes like a phantom. Cold, colourless,
and vague, it sends a warning streak before it of a deathlike hue, as if
it cried out, “Look what I am bringing you who watch there! Who
will tell him!”

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 Dickens

CHAPTER LIX

Esther’s Narrative
IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK in the morning when the houses outside Lon-
don did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with
streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition
than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the
thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never
slackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance than the
horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They had stopped
exhausted halfway up hills, they had been driven through streams of
turbulent water, they had slipped down and become entangled with
the harness; but he and his little lantern had been always ready, and
when the mishap was set right, I had never heard any variation in his
cool, “Get on, my lads!”
The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our
journey back I could not account for. Never wavering, he never even
stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of
London. A very few words, here and there, were then enough for
him; and thus we came, at between three and four o’clock in the
morning, into Islington.
I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected
all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther
behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must be
right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following this
woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it and discussing
it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when we found her
and what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions
also that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured

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by long dwelling on such reflections when we stopped.

We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My com-
panion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with
splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the carriage
itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take it, lifted me
out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from the rest.
“Why, my dear!” he said as he did this. “How wet you are!”
I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its
way into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a
fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had
penetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver,
who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down
the street to his stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry
straw. They shook it out and strewed it well about me, and I found
it warm and comfortable.
“Now, my dear,” said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window
after I was shut up. “We’re a-going to mark this person down. It may
take a little time, but you don’t mind that. You’re pretty sure that I’ve
got a motive. Ain’t you?”
I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time I
should understand it better, but I assured him that I had confidence
in him.
“So you may have, my dear,” he returned. “And I tell you what! If
you only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you
after what I’ve experienced of you, that’ll do. Lord! You’re no trouble
at all. I never see a young woman in any station of society—and I’ve
seen many elevated ones too—conduct herself like you have con-
ducted yourself since you was called out of your bed. You’re a pat-
tern, you know, that’s what you are,” said Mr. Bucket warmly; “you’re
a pattern.”
I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no hin-
drance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.
“My dear,” he returned, “when a young lady is as mild as she’s game,
and as game as she’s mild, that’s all I ask, and more than I expect. She
then becomes a queen, and that’s about what you are yourself.”
With these encouraging words—they really were encouraging to
me under those lonely and anxious circumstances—he got upon the

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 Dickens

box, and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew
then nor have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the
narrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him direct-
ing the driver, I was prepared for our descending into a deeper com-
plication of such streets, and we never failed to do so.
Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a
larger building than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped at
offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and I
saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down
by an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of
his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various dark
quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would be
held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within narrower
and easier limits. Single police-officers on duty could now tell Mr.
Bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go. At
last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one
of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner
of nodding from time to time. When it was finished he came to me
looking very busy and very attentive.
“Now, Miss Summerson, he said to me, “you won’t be alarmed
whatever comes off, I know. It’s not necessary for me to give you any
further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down
and that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don’t like
to ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?”
Of course I got out directly and took his arm.
“It ain’t so easy to keep your feet,” said Mr. Bucket, “but take
time.”
Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed
the street, I thought I knew the place. “Are we in Holborn?” I asked him.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bucket. “Do you know this turning?”
“It looks like Chancery Lane.”
“And was christened so, my dear,” said Mr. Bucket.
We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I
heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence and as
quickly as we could with such a foothold, when some one coming
towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped
and stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I heard an

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exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Woodcourt. I

knew his voice very well.
It was so unexpected and so—I don’t know what to call it, whether
pleasant or painful—to come upon it after my feverish wandering
journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back the
tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange country.
“My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour,
and in such weather!”
He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on
some uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation.
I told him that we had but just left a coach and were going—but then I
was obliged to look at my companion.
“Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt”—he had caught the name from
me—”we are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket.”
Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly
taken off his cloak and was putting it about me. “That’s a good
move, too,” said Mr. Bucket, assisting, “a very good move.”
“May I go with you?” said Mr. Woodcourt. I don’t know whether
to me or to my companion.
“Why, Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on him-
self. “Of course you may.”
It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them,
wrapped in the cloak.
“I have just left Richard,” said Mr. Woodcourt. “I have been sit-
ting with him since ten o’clock last night.”
“Oh, dear me, he is ill!”
“No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed
and faint—you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes—
and Ada sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her
note and came straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a
little while, and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my
doing, though God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I
remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast
asleep as she is now, I hope!”
His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected
devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had
inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate

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all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if
it had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by
the change in my appearance: “I will accept him as a trust, and it shall
be a sacred one!”
We now turned into another narrow street. “Mr. Woodcourt,” said
Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, “our business
takes us to a law-stationer’s here, a certain Mr. Snagsby’s. What, you
know him, do you?” He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.
“Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place.”
“Indeed, sir?” said Mr. Bucket. “Then you will be so good as to let
me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and
have half a word with him?”
The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my
saying I heard some one crying.
“Don’t be alarmed, miss,” he returned. “It’s Snagsby’s servant.”
“Why, you see,” said Mr. Bucket, “the girl’s subject to fits, and has
‘em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I
want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought
to reason somehow.”
“At all events, they wouldn’t be up yet if it wasn’t for her, Mr. Bucket,”
said the other man. “She’s been at it pretty well all night, sir.”
“Well, that’s true,” he returned. “My light’s burnt out. Show yours
a moment.”
All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which
I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light
produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and
knocked. The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he
went in, leaving us standing in the street.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Woodcourt, “if without obtruding
myself on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.”
“You are truly kind,” I answered. “I need wish to keep no secret of
my own from you; if I keep any, it is another’s.”
“I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long
as I can fully respect it.”
“I trust implicitly to you,” I said. “I know and deeply feel how
sacredly you keep your promise.

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After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and
Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. “Please to
come in, Miss Summerson,” he said, “and sit down by the fire. Mr.
Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a
medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be
done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I particu-
larly want. It’s not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but
she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle with-
out hurting.”
We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and
raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage behind
the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat
who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly.
“Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket,” said he. “The lady will
excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room.
The back is Guster’s bedroom, and in it she’s a-carrying on, poor
thing, to a frightful extent!”
We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found
the little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs.
Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.
“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, “to wave—
not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear—hostilities for one single
moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is Inspector Bucket,
Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady.”
She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and
looked particularly hard at me.
“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remot-
est corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, “it is not unlikely
that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt,
and a lady call upon us in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, at the present
hour. I don’t know. I have not the least idea. If I was to be informed,
I should despair of understanding, and I’d rather not be told.”
He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand,
and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology
when Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself.
“Now, Mr. Snagsby,” said he, “the best thing you can do is to go along
with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster—”

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 Dickens

“My Guster, Mr. Bucket!” cried Mr. Snagsby. “Go on, sir, go on.
I shall be charged with that next.”
“And to hold the candle,” pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting
himself, “or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you’re asked.
Which there’s not a man alive more ready to do, for you’re a man of
urbanity and suavity, you know, and you’ve got the sort of heart that
can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good as see to
her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon
as ever you can?”
As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by
the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon
the fender, talking all the time.
“Don’t you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable
look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she’s under a mistake alto-
gether. She’ll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of
her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I’m a-
going to explain it to her.” Here, standing on the hearth with his wet
hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs.
Snagsby. “Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman
possessing what you may call charms, you know—’Believe Me, if
All Those Endearing,’ and cetrer—you’re well acquainted with the
song, because it’s in vain for you to tell me that you and good society
are strangers—charms—attractions, mind you, that ought to give
you confidence in yourself—is, that you’ve done it.”
Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered,
what did Mr. Bucket mean.
“What does Mr. Bucket mean?” he repeated, and I saw by his face
that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the
letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it
must be; “I’ll tell you what he means, ma’am. Go and see Othello
acted. That’s the tragedy for you.”
Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.
“Why?” said Mr. Bucket. “Because you’ll come to that if you don’t
look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your
mind’s not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I
tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you’re what I call an
intellectual woman—with your soul too large for your body, if you

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come to that, and chafing it—and you know me, and you recollect
where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don’t
you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady.”
Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I
did at the time.
“And Toughey—him as you call Jo—was mixed up in the same
business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was
mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband,
with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed
up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same
business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed
up in the same business, and no other. And yet a married woman,
possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too), and
goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. Why, I am
ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it by
this time.)”
Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her
eyes.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Bucket excitedly. “No. See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a
wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your
maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes a
paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do you
do? You hide and you watch ‘em, and you pounce upon that maid-
servant—knowing what she’s subject to and what a little thing will
bring ‘em on—in that surprising manner and with that severity that,
by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging
upon that girl’s words!”
He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily
clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it
stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and
went away again.
“Now, Mrs, Snagsby, the only amends you can make,” said Mr.
Bucket, rapidly glancing at it, “is to let me speak a word to this
young lady in private here. And if you know of any help that you can
give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any
one thing that’s likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your
swiftest and best!” In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the
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door. “Now my dear, you’re steady and quite sure of yourself?”

“Quite,” said I.
“Whose writing is that?”
It was my mother’s. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece
of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed
to me at my guardian’s.
“You know the hand,” he said, “and if you are firm enough to read
it to me, do! But be particular to a word.”
It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what
follows:

“I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dear one,
if I could, once more—but only to see her—not to speak to her or
let her know that I was near. The other object, to elude pursuit and
to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share. The assistance
that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it
was for the dear one’s good. You remember her dead child. The men’s
consent I bought, but her help was freely given.”

“‘I came.’ That was written,” said my companion, “when she rested
there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right.”

The next was written at another time:

“I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know
that I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but to die.
When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that guilt to
the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being
found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It
was right that all that had sustained me should give way at once and
that I should die of terror and my conscience.

“Take courage,” said Mr. Bucket. “There’s only a few words more.”
Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, al-
most in the dark:

“I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon forgotten so, and

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shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by which I can be

recognized. This paper I part with now. The place where I shall lie down,
if I can get so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.”

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into

my chair. “Cheer up! Don’t think me hard with you, my dear, but as
soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready.”
I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for my
unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I
heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. At
length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important to
address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for whatever
information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that she could
now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed. The ques-
tions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what passed
between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where the
person went. Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these points, I
went into the next room with them. Mr. Woodcourt would have
remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.
The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her
down. They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she
might have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but
she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I
kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my
shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst
into tears.
“My poor girl,” said I, laying my face against her forehead, for in-
deed I was crying too, and trembling, “it seems cruel to trouble you
now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter
than I could tell you in an hour.”
She began piteously declaring that she didn’t mean any harm, she
didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!
“We are all sure of that,” said I. “But pray tell me how you got it.”
“Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I’ll tell true, indeed, Mrs.
Snagsby.”
“I am sure of that,” said I. “And how was it?”
“I had been out on an errand, dear lady—long after it was dark—

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quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking per-

son, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me
coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here.
And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about
here, but had lost her way and couldn’t find them. Oh, what shall I
do, what shall I do! They won’t believe me! She didn’t say any harm
to me, and I didn’t say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!”
It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her—which she did, I
must say, with a good deal of contrition—before she could be got
beyond this.
“She could not find those places,” said I.
“No!” cried the girl, shaking her head. “No! Couldn’t find them.
And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that
if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you’d have given her half a crown,
I know!”
“Well, Guster, my girl,” said he, at first not knowing what to say.
“I hope I should.”
“And yet she was so well spoken,” said the girl, looking at me with
wide open eyes, “that it made a person’s heart bleed. And so she said
to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her
which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And
so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to
parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far
from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate.”
As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr.
Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate from one
of alarm.
“Oh, dear, dear!” cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her
hands. “What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying
ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff—that
you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby—that frightened me
so, Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!”
“You are so much better now,” sald I. “Pray, pray tell me more.”
“Yes I will, yes I will! But don’t be angry with me, that’s a dear
lady, because I have been so ill.”
Angry with her, poor soul!
“There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to

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find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with eyes
like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. And so
she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put
that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and
never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the messen-
ger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no harm,
and she said no—no harm. And so I took it from her, and she said
she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and conse-
quently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and went.”
“And did she go—”
“Yes,” cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. “Yes! She went the way
I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me
from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened.”
Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped
me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesi-
tated, but I said, “Don’t leave me now!” and Mr. Bucket added, “You’ll
be better with us, we may want you; don’t lose time!”
I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that
it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the street-
lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling and that all
the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled people passing in
the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the clogged and bursting
gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow
over which we passed, the narrowness of the courts by which we
went. At the same time I remember that the poor girl seemed to be
yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my
hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained
house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great wa-
ter-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the air,
and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.
At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one
lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly
struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground—a
dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where I
could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in
by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose
walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the gate,

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drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and splashed
down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman ly-
ing—Jenny, the mother of the dead child.
I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated
me with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to
the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did so, as
I thought. I did so, as I am sure.
“Miss Summerson, you’ll understand me, if you think a moment.
They changed clothes at the cottage.”
They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in
my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached
no meaning to them in any other connexion.
“And one returned,” said Mr. Bucket, “and one went on. And the
one that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive
and then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!”
I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea
what it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the
dead child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the
iron gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately
spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, sense-
less creature. She who had brought my mother’s letter, who could
give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to
guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had
come to this condition by some means connected with my mother
that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and
help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but
did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr.
Woodcourt’s face. I saw but did not comprehend his touching the
other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in
the bitter air, with a reverence for something. But my understanding
for all this was gone.
I even heard it said between them, “Shall she go?”
“She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her.
They have a higher right than ours.”
I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head,
put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my
mother, cold and dead.

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CHAPTER LX

Perspective
I PROCEED TO OTHER PASSAGES of my narrative. From the goodness of
all about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of un-
moved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much still
remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it
was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I
could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.
I proceed to other passages of my narrative.
During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where
Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian’s invitation, to stay with
us. When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk
with him in our old way—though I could have done that sooner if
he would have believed me—I resumed my work and my chair be-
side his. He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.
“Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with a kiss, “welcome to the
growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I
propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer
time—as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short.”
“And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?” said I.
“Aye, my dear? Bleak House,” he returned, “must learn to take
care of itself.”
I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw
his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.
“Bleak House,” he repeated—and his tone did not sound sorrow-
ful, I found—”must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from
Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.”

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“It’s like you, guardian,” said I, “to have been taking that into con-
sideration for a happy surprise to both of us.”
“Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for
that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be
seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of
Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not
of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.”
“Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?”
“I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden.”
“Does he still say the same of Richard?”
“Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has;
on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about
him; who can be?”
My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in a
day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last until I was
quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart was as full of affec-
tion and gratitude towards her cousin John as it had ever been, and we
acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions upon her to stay away; but we
knew on the other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him to be
sparing of her visits at our house. My guardian’s delicacy had soon per-
ceived this and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right.
“Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard,” said I. “When will he awake
from his delusion!”
“He is not in the way to do so now, my dear,” replied my guard-
ian. “The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having
made me the principal representative of the great occasion of his
suffering.”
I could not help adding, “So unreasonably!”
“Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot,” returned my guardian, “what shall
we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice
at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom,
unreason and injustice from beginning to end—if it ever has an end—
how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of
it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than
older men did in old times.”
His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke of
him touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very soon.

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“I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the
whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished
by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors,” pursued my
guardian. “When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses
from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be aston-
ished too!”
He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where
the wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.
“Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave
to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada
upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance of
another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly begged of
Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move
this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month, next year,
sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can wait.”
But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I
thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.
“So he tells me,” returned my guardian. “Very good. He has made
his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing
more to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do
you like her, my dear?”
In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked her
very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.
“I think so too,” said my guardian. “Less pedigree? Not so much
of Morgan ap—what’s his name?”
That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a very
harmless person, even when we had had more of him.
“Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains,” said
my guardian. “I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better
for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?”
No. And yet—
My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.
I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I
could say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been
better if we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have
explained why even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to any-
body else.

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“You see,” said my guardian, “our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt’s

way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is
agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you.”
Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could
not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quite easy in
my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!
“It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do
better.”
“Sure, little woman?”
Quite sure. I had had a moment’s time to think, since I had urged
that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.
“Good,” said my guardian. “It shall be done. Carried
unanimously.”
“Carried unanimously,” I repeated, going on with my work.
It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornament-
ing. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and
never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly.
After I had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that
were to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last
theme.
“You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt be-
fore Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to an-
other country. Have you been advising him since?”
“Yes, little woman, pretty often.”
“Has he decided to do so?”
“I rather think not.”
“Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?” said I.
“Why—yes—perhaps,” returned my guardian, beginning his an-
swer in a very deliberate manner. “About half a year hence or so, there
is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place
in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated—streams and
streets, town and country, mill and moor—and seems to present an
opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may
sometimes lie (as most men’s sometimes do, I dare say) above the
ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough
after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good
service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I sup-

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pose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead
of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care for. It is
Woodcourt’s kind.”
“And will he get this appointment?” I asked.
“Why, little woman,” returned my guardian, smiling, “not being an
oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation stands very
high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck; and
strange to say, I believe the best man has the best chance. You must not
suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a very, very commonplace affair,
my dear, an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount
of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.”
“The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it
falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian.”
“You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.”
We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future
of Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his
side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.
I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner
where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I
found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled
off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours,
and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door
and coming in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no
fear of becoming troublesome just yet.
On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times
he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of his,
so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I would
come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes’s office. Some-
times I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and
biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln’s Inn, near the
place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how different!
That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the
candles I used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes’s office I knew
very well. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married
in debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was
meant by Mr. Vholes’s shoulder being at the wheel—as I still heard it
was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save,

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but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.
She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She
adorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she
had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural
when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed
that I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his
ruinous career.
I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impres-
sion. As I turned into Symond’s Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming
out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce,
as she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from
that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Mon-
day at five o’clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet,
which never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest
reticule of documents on her arm.
“My dear!” she began. “So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see
you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? to be
sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you.”
“Then Richard is not come in yet?” said I. “I am glad of that, for I
was afraid of being a little late.”
“No, he is not come in,” returned Miss Flite. “He has had a long
day in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don’t like Vholes, I
hope? Don’t like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!”
“I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now,” said I.
“My dearest,” returned Miss Flite, “daily and hourly. You know
what I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor’s table? My dear,
next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins
quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?”
It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it
was no surprise.
“In short, my valued friend,” pursued Miss Flite, advancing her lips to
my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, “I must tell you a
secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted, and ap-
pointed him. In my will. Ye-es.”
“Indeed?” said I.
“Ye-es,” repeated Miss Flite in her most genteel accents, “my ex-
ecutor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.) I

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have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch that
judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance.”
It made me sigh to think of him.
“I did at one time mean,” said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh, “to
nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular,
my charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out,
poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don’t mention it. This
is in confidence.”
She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a
folded piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.
“Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds.”
“Really, Miss Flite?” said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her
confidence received with an appearance of interest.
She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy.
“Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up
with all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust,
Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly,
Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon,
and Spinach!”
The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever
seen in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names
of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own
lips, quite chilled me.
This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have
dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard (who
arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our
dinner. Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for
some minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready
what we were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of
holding a little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the
window where I was sitting and began upon Symond’s Inn.
“A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official
one,” said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer for me.
“There is not much to see here,” said I.
“Nor to hear, miss,” returned Mr. Vholes. “A little music does
occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon eject

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it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?”
I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.
“I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his
friends myself,” said Mr. Vholes, “and I am aware that the gentlemen
of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an
unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and
evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of preju-
dice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find Mr.
C. looking, Miss Summerson?”
“He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Vholes.
He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to
the ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if
they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though
there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.
“Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?” he re-
sumed.
“Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend,” I answered.
“But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance.”
“That can do little for an unhappy mind,” said I.
“Just so,” said Mr. Vholes.
So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richard were
wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were some-
thing of the vampire in him.
“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his
gloved hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the
same in black kid or out of it, “this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.
C.’s.”
I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been
engaged when they were both very young, I told him (a little indig-
nantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and
brighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy in-
fluence which now darkened his life.
“Just so,” assented Mr. Vholes again. “Still, with a view to
everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission,
Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very ill-ad-
vised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.’s

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Bleak House

connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself,

but also to my own reputation—dear to myself as a professional
man aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for
whom I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will
even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support.”
“It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and
better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes,” said I, “if
Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which
you are engaged with him.”
Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough—or rather gasp—into one of
his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute
even that.
“Miss Summerson,” he said, “it may be so; and I freely admit that
the young lady who has taken Mr. C.’s name upon herself in so ill-
advised a manner—you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throw-
ing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.’s connexions—
is a highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mix-
ing much with general society in any but a professional character;
still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel
young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never
did give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young
lady is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I
have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in
their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.’s pursult of his inter-
ests—”
“Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!”
“Pardon me,” returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the same
inward and dispassionate manner. “Mr. C. takes certain interests un-
der certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference
to Mr. C,’s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss
Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my
desire that everything should he openly carried on—I used those
words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is
producible at any time—I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid
down the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a
client of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral
(that is to say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out.

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 Dickens

I have carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things
over to any connexion of Mr. C.’s on any account. As open as I was
to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional
duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say,
unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.’s affairs in a very bad
way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I
regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir? Yes,
I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of some
agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to
thank you very much, sir!”
He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he
came into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Vholes’s
scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel
that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client’s progress.
We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Rich-
ard, anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took off his
gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I
doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host’s
face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, ab-
stracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at other
intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright
eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a restlessness
that changed them altogether. 1 cannot use the expression that he
looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into
such a ruin Richard’s youth and youthful beauty had all fallen away.
He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself
to be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even
with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all
gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known
little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me
from the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like
the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.
Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me
there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not appear
to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp
which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and said
that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his office.

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“Always devoted to business, Vholes!” cried Richard.

“Yes, Mr. C.,” he returned, “the interests of clients are never to be ne-
glected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional man like
myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his fellow-practitio-
ners and society at large. My denying myself the pleasure of the present
agreeable conversation may not be wholly irrespective of your own inter-
ests, Mr. C.”
Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes
out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was a
good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do,
a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck
me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put
things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who
attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and
quietly sat down to sing some of Richard’s favourites, the lamp be-
ing first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting
his eyes.
I sat between them, at my dear girl’s side, and felt very melancholy
listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he dark-
ened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time, rising
between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr.
Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half playfully,
half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and
where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in
a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night;
and Richard readily consenting, they went out together.
They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round
her waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side),
but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without
striking any note.
“Esther, my dearest,” she said, breaking silence, “Richard is never
so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan
Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that.”
I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.
Woodcourt had come to her cousin John’s house and had known us all

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there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had al-
ways liked him, and—and so forth.
“All true,” said Ada, “but that he is such a devoted friend to us we
owe to you.”
I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no
more about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her
trembling.
“Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good
wife indeed. You shall teach me.”
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering over
the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that it was she
who had something to say to me.
“When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him.
I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never
known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I understood the
danger he was in, dear Esther.”
“I know, I know, my darling.”
“When we were married I had some little hope that I might be
able to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it
in a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desper-
ately for my sake—as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I
would have married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!”
In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still—a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying
away with them—I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.
“You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you
see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I
do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely
know Richard better than my love does.”
She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear,
dear girl!
“I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know
every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite
determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him
that I grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I
want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I

849
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want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I mar-
ried him to do this, and this supports me.”
I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and
I now thought I began to know what it was.
“And something else supports me, Esther.”
She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still
in motion.
“I look forward a little while, and I don’t know what great aid may
come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may
be something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been,
with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win
him back.”
Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped
her in mine.
“If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look forward. I
look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that
then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a beauti-
ful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and
a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he
used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine
with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, ‘I thank
God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored
through me!’”
Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!
“These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will.
Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that
arises when I look at Richard.”
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing
and weeping, she replied, “That he may not live to see his child.”

850
 Dickens

CHAPTER LXI

A Discovery
The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in my
memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.
Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I
found Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing
the piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my
very much mistrusting the probability of his being there without
making Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in his care-
less gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada’s
life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore
resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr.
Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the
great consideration that made me bold.
I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As I
approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I felt what
a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr. Skimpole and
how extremely likely it was that he would signally defeat me. However, I
thought that being there, I would go through with it. I knocked with a
trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole’s door—literally with a hand, for the
knocker was gone—and after a long parley gained admission from an
Irishwoman, who was in the area when I knocked, breaking up the lid of
a water-butt with a poker to light the fire with.
Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a

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little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he asked.
Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I have his
Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment daughter?
Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect nosegay?
I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.
‘My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course,” he said, bring-
ing his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, of
course it’s not business. Then it’s pleasure!”
I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not
quite a pleasant matter.
“Then, my dear Miss Summerson,” said he with the frankest gai-
ety, “don’t allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is not
a pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter crea-
ture, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am
imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant matter,
how much less should you! So that’s disposed of, and we will talk of
something else.”
Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.
“I should think it a mistake,” said Mr. Skimpole with his airy
laugh, “if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I
don’t!”
“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, raising my eyes to his, “I have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life—”
“Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who’s the
junior partner? D?” said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. “Not an idea of
them!”
“—That perhaps,” I went on, “you will excuse my boldness on
that account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard
is poorer than he was.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Skimpole. “So am I, they tell me.”
“And in very embarrassed circumstances.”
“Parallel case, exactly!” said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted
countenance.
“This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I

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think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by visi-
tors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind, it
has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that—if you would—
not—”
I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me
by both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way antici-
pated it.
“Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most
assuredly not. Why should I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for
pleasure. I don’t go anywhere for pain, because I was made for plea-
sure. Pain comes to me when it wants me. Now, I have had very little
pleasure at our dear Richard’s lately, and your practical sagacity dem-
onstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which
was once so captivating in them, begin to think, ‘This is a man who
wants pounds.’ So I am; I always want pounds; not for
myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our
young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, ‘This is the man
who had pounds, who borrowed them,’ which I did. I always bor-
row pounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much
to be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to
me. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!”
Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he rea-
soned thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevo-
lence quite astonishing.
“Besides,” he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light-hearted
conviction, “if I don’t go anywhere for pain—which would be a per-
version of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do—
why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I went to see
our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of mind, I should
give them pain. The associations with me would be disagreeable.
They might say, ‘This is the man who had pounds and who can’t pay
pounds,’ which I can’t, of course; nothing could be more out of the
question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn’t
go near them—and I won’t.”
He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Noth-
ing but Miss Summerson’s fine tact, he said, would have found this
out for him.

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Bleak House

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point

were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything
leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however,
and I thought I was not to be put off in that.
“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, “I must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that occa-
sion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would hurt
him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much surprised.”
“No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?” he returned
inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.
“Greatly surprised.”
He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and
whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his
most engaging manner, “You know what a child I am. Why sur-
prised?”
I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he
begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to
understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed
to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much
amused and interested when he heard this and said, “No, really?”
with ingenuous simplicity.
“You know I don’t intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me—or below
me,” said Mr. Skimpole. “I don’t even know which; but as I under-
stand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remark-
able for her practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should
imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?”
I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.
“Ah! Then you see,” said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, “I am
hopeless of understanding it.”
I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my
guardian’s confidence for a bribe.
“My dear Miss Summerson,” he returned with a candid hilarity
that was all his own, “I can’t be bribed.”
“Not by Mr. Bucket?” said I.

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 Dickens

“No,” said he. “Not by anybody. I don’t attach any value to money.
I don’t care about it, I don’t know about it, I don’t want it, I don’t
keep it—it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?”
I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the
capacity for arguing the question.
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Skimpole, “I am exactly the man to be
placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the rest
of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in such a
case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian baby is by
bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far above suspicion as
Caesar’s wife.”
Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful impar-
tiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed the matter
about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in anybody else!
“Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy re-
ceived into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object
to. The boy being in bed, a man arrives—like the house that Jack
built. Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the
house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a
bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is re-
ceived into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object
to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the
man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to
bed in a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.
Should the Skimpole have refused the note? why should the Skimpole
have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, ‘What’s this for?
I don’t understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.’ Bucket still
entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole, not
being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole per-
ceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a
tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a
peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and
execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they
run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges
us comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and
intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong faith
in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very useful

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to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want it myself;

shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket’s weapons; shall I positively
paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And again. If it is
blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is blameable in Bucket to
offer the note—much more blameable in Bucket, because he is the
knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket;
Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the general cohesion
of things, that he should think well of Bucket. The state expressly
asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that’s all he does!”
I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore
took my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits,
would not hear of my returning home attended only by “Little
Coavinses,” and accompanied me himself. He entertained me on the
way with a variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at part-
ing, that he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found
that out for him about our young friends.
As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may at
once finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him
and my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on
his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian’s entreaties (as we af-
terwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His being heavily
in my guardian’s debt had nothing to do with their separation. He
died some five years afterwards and left a diary behind him, with
letters and other materials towards his life, which was published and
which showed him to have been the victim of
a combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It
was considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of it
myself than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the
book. It was this: “Jarndyce, in common with most other men I
have known, is the incarnation of selfishness.”
And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly
indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance
occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in
my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as belong-
ing to a part of my life that was gone—gone like my infancy or my
childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that
subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has recalled

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them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the last
words of these pages, which I see now not so very far before me.
The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the
hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the
miserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court
day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew
there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became
one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any of the
gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.
So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to
avow in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed
the fresh air now “but for Woodcourt.” It was only Mr. Woodcourt
who could occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time
and rouse him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body
that alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which became more fre-
quent as the months went on. My dear girl was right in saying that
he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have
no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the
more intense by his grief for his young wife, and became like the
madness of a gamester.
I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at
night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes my
guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk
home together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight
o’clock. I could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually at the
time, for I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more
to do to finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes of
the hour when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling
my last kiss for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Woodcourt
went with me, as it was dusk.
When we came to the usual place of meeting—it was close by, and
Mr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before—my guardian
was not there. We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but
there were no signs of him. We agreed that he was either prevented
from coming or that he had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourt
proposed to walk home with me.
It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very

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short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and

Ada the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had
done—my appreciation of it had risen above all words then—but I
hoped he might not be without some understanding of what I felt so
strongly.
Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian
was out and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very
same room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her
youthful lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her
young heart, the very same room from which my guardian and I had
watched them going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom
of their hope and promise.
We were standing by the opened window looking down into the
street when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that
he loved me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all
unchanged to him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought
was pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh,
too late to know it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrate-
ful thought I had. Too late.
“When I returned,” he told me, “when I came back, no richer than
when I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so
inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish
thought—”
“Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!” I entreated him. “I do
not deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that
time, many!”
“Heaven knows, beloved of my life,” said he, “that my praise is
not a lover’s praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around
you see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and
awakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins.”
“Oh, Mr. Woodcourt,” cried I, “it is a great thing to win love, it is
a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and
the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and
sorrow—joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it
better; but I am not free to think of yours.”
I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and
when I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was

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true, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that.
Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could be
worthier of it all through my life. And it was a comfort to me, and
an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up within me that was
derived from him when I thought so.
He broke the silence.
“I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who
will evermore be as dear to me as now”—and the deep earnestness
with which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep—
“if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged
it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which
I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have
always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of
good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should tell
it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night. I dis-
tress you. I have said enough.”
Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I wished
to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he showed that
first commiseration for me.
“Dear Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “before we part to-night, some-
thing is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never
shall—but—”
I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.
“—I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its
remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am,
I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what
a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me
could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are
none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall
make me better.”
He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How
could I ever be worthy of those tears?
“If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in tend-
ing Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life—you
ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than

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it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and
that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr.
Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my
heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been
beloved by you.”
He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I
felt still more encouraged.
“I am induced by what you said just now,” said I, “to hope that
you have succeeded in your endeavour.”
“I have,” he answered. “With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you
who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have
succeeded.”
“Heaven bless him for it,” said I, giving him my hand; “and heaven
bless you in all you do!”
“I shall do it better for the wish,” he answered; “it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.”
“Ah! Richard!” I exclaimed involuntarily, “What will he do when
you are gone!”
“I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Summerson, even if I were.”
One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me.
I knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I
reserved it.
“Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “you will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright
before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret
or desire.”
It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.
“From my childhood I have been,” said I, “the object of the untir-
ing goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound
by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could
do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day.”
“I share those feelings,” he returned. “You speak of Mr.
Jarndyce.”
“You know his virtues well,” said I, “but few can know the
greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and best quali-
ties have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the

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shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your

highest homage and respect had not been his already—which I know
they are—they would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in
the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my sake.”
He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I
gave him my hand again.
“Good night,” I said, “Good-bye.”
“The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to
this theme between us for ever.”
“Yes.”
“Good night; good-bye.”
He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street.
His love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly
upon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave
way again and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.
But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called
me the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear
to him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had
died away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to
be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. How
easy my path, how much easier than his!

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Bleak House

CHAPTER LXII

Another Discovery
I HAD NOT THE COURAGE to see any one that night. I had not even the
courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little
reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the
dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light to
read my guardian’s letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it from the
place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light
of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my pillow.
I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for
a walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back
and arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early
that I had a good time still for Charley’s lesson before breakfast;
Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective
article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we
were altogether very notable. When my guardian appeared he said,
“Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!” And Mrs.
Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the
Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with
the sun upon it.
This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my oppor-
tunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his own
room—the room of last night—by himself. Then I made an excuse to
go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.
“Well, Dame Durden?” said my guardian; the post had brought
him several letters, and he was writing. “You want money?”

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 Dickens

“No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.”

“There never was such a Dame Durden,” said my guardian, “for
making money last.”
He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at
me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never
seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it
which made me think, “He has been doing some great kindness this
morning.”
“There never was,” said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon
me, “such a Dame Durden for making money last.”
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so
much that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair,
which was always put at his side—for sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him—
I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I
found I did not disturb it at all.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “I want to speak to you. Have I been re-
miss in anything?”
“Remiss in anything, my dear!”
“Have I not been what I have meant to be since—I brought the
answer to your letter, guardian?”
“You have been everything I could desire, my love.”
“I am very glad indeed to hear that,” I returned. “You know, you
said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes.”
“Yes,” said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm
about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked
in my face, smiling.
“Since then,” said I, “we have never spoken on the subject except
once.”
“And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear.”
“And I said,” I timidly reminded him, “but its mistress remained.”
He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.
“Dear guardian,” said I, “I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well

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Bleak House

again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought

to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.”
“See,” he returned gaily, “what a sympathy there must be between
us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted—it’s a large excep-
tion—in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall
we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?”
“When you please.”
“Next month?”
“Next month, dear guardian.”
“The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life—the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world—the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress—shall be next month then,” said my guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on
the day when I brought my answer.
A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was
quite unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the
servant’s shoulder. “Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson,” said he,
rather out of breath, “with all apologies for intruding, will you allow
me to order up a person that’s on the stairs and that objects to being
left there in case of becoming the subject of observations in his ab-
sence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there member in this
direction, will you?” said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.
This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap, unable to
walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and deposited in the room
near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid of the bearers, mysteriously
shut the door, and bolted it.
“Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce,” he then began, putting down his
hat and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered
finger, “you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentle-
man likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discount-
ing line is his line principally, and he’s what you may call a dealer in
bills. That’s about what you are, you know, ain’t you?” said Mr. Bucket,
stopping a little to address the gentleman in question, who was ex-
ceedingly suspicious of him.
He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he
was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

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“Now, moral, you know!” said Mr. Bucket, improving the acci-
dent. “Don’t you contradict when there ain’t no occasion, and you
won’t be took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to
you. I’ve been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Le-
icester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I’ve been in and
out and about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises
formerly occupied by Krook, marine store dealer—a relation of this
gentleman’s that you saw in his life-time if I don’t mistake?”
My guardian replied, “Yes.”
“Well! You are to understand,” said Mr. Bucket, “that this
gentleman he come into Krook’s property, and a good deal of mag-
pie property there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord
bless you, of no use to nobody!”
The cunning of Mr. Bucket’s eye and the masterly manner in which
he contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case according
to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr. Smallweed if
he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in quite understand-
ing him. His difficulty was increased by Mr. Smallweed’s being deaf as
well as suspicious and watching his face with the closest attention.
“Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he
comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don’t you
see?” said Mr. Bucket.
“To which? Say that again,” cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp
voice.
“To rummage,” repeated Mr. Bucket. “Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” cried Mr. Smallweed.
“Of course you do,” said Mr. Bucket conversationally, “and much
to blame you would be if you didn’t. And so you chance to find, you
know,” Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheer-
ful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated, “and so
you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce
to it. Don’t you?”
Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly
nodded assent.

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Bleak House

“And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and

convenience—all in good time, for you’re not curious to read it, and
why should you be?—what do you find it to be but a will, you see.
That’s the drollery of it,” said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air of
recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had
the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; “what do
you find it to be but a will?”
“I don’t know that it’s good as a will or as anything else,”
snarled Mr. Smallweed.
Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment—he had slipped and
shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle—as if he were much
disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend
over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his
eyes upon us.
“Notwithstanding which,” said Mr. Bucket, “you get a little doubt-
ful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender
mind of your own.”
“Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?” asked Mr. Smallweed
with his hand to his ear.
“A very tender mind.”
“Ho! Well, go on,” said Mr. Smallweed.
“And as you’ve heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated
Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books,
and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with ‘em, and
always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think—and
you never was more correct in your born days—’Ecod, if I don’t
look about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.’”
“Now, mind how you put it, Bucket,” cried the old man anxiously
with his hand at his ear. “Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks.
Pick me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!”
Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon
as he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed’s coughing and his vi-
cious ejaculations of “Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I’ve no breath in my
body! I’m worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!”
Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.
“So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,

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you take me into your confidence, don’t you?”

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill will
and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he admitted this,
rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very last person he
would have thought of taking into his confidence if he could by any possibil-
ity have kept him out of it.
“And I go into the business with you—very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get your-
self into a most precious line if you don’t come out with that there
will,” said Mr. Bucket emphatically; “and accordingly you arrange
with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr. Jarndyce, on
no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you trusting your-
self to him for your reward; that’s about where it is, ain’t it?”
“That’s what was agreed,” Mr. Smallweed assented with the same
bad grace.
“In consequence of which,” said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agree-
able manner all at once and becoming strictly businesslike, “you’ve
got that will upon your person at the present time, and the only
thing that remains for you to do is just to out with it!”
Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye,
and having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger,
Mr. Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend
and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to
my guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many
declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor indus-
trious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce’s honour not to let him
lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took from a breast-
pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much singed upon
the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had long ago been
thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr. Bucket lost
no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of a conjuror,
from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my guardian,
he whispered behind his fingers, “Hadn’t settled how to make their
market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out twenty pound
upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon him on ac-
count of their objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then
they split on one another. Lord! There ain’t one of the family that

867
Bleak House

wouldn’t sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady—and
she’s only out of it because she’s too weak in her mind to drive a
bargain.”
“Mr Bucket,” said my guardian aloud, “whatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it be
of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remuner-
ated accordingly.”
“Not according to your merits, you know,” said Mr. Bucket in
friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. “Don’t you be afraid of that.
According to its value.”
“That is what I mean,” said my guardian. “You may observe, Mr.
Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the cause,
and its existence shall be made known without delay to all other
parties interested.”
“Mr. Jarndyce can’t say fairer than that, you understand,” observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. “And it being now made clear to
you that nobody’s a-going to be wronged—which must be a great
relief to your mind—we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing
you home again.”
He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morn-
ing, and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at
parting went his way.
We went our way too, which was to Lincoln’s Inn, as quickly as
possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table
in his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles
of papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr. Kenge
expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight of
Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as he
spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than ever.
“I hope,” said Mr. Kenge, “that the genial influence of Miss
Summerson,” he bowed to me, “may have induced Mr. Jarndyce,”
he bowed to him, “to forego some little of his animosity towards a
cause and towards a court which are—shall I say, which take their
place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?”

868
 Dickens

“I am inclined to think,” returned my guardian, “that Miss

Summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the
cause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a
part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this
paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has
come into my hands.”
He did so shortly and distinctly.
“It could not, sir,” said Mr. Kenge, “have been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law.”
“Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?” said my guardian.
“Oh, fie!” said Mr. Kenge.
At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper,
but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became amazed.
“Mr. Jarndyce,” he said, looking off it, “you have perused this?”
“Not I!” returned my guardian.
“But, my dear sir,” said Mr. Kenge, “it is a will of later date than
any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator’s handwriting. It is
duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be cancelled, as
might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks of fire, it is
not cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!”
“Well!” said my guardian. “What is that to me?”
“Mr. Guppy!” cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. “I beg your par-
don, Mr. Jarndyce.”
“Sir.”
“Mr. Vholes of Symond’s Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce. Glad to speak with him.”
Mr. Guppy disappeared.
“You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still leaving
it a very handsome one,” said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand persua-
sively and blandly. “You would further have seen that the interests of
Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs. Richard
Carstone, are very materially advanced by it.”
“Kenge,” said my guardian, “if all the flourishing wealth that the

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suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask me to
believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?”
“Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is
a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a
very great system, a very great system. Really, really!”
My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was mod-
estly impressed by Mr. Kenge’s professional eminence.
“How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Willl you be so good as to take a
chair here by me and look over this paper?”
Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word.
He was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When
he had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window,
and shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some
length. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute
what he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people
ever did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed
to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation that sounded as
if it were almost composed of the words “Receiver-General,” “Ac-
countant-General,” “report,” “estate,” and “costs.” When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge’s table and spoke aloud.
“Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes,” said
Mr. Kenge.
Mr. Vholes said, “Very much so.”
“And a very important document, Mr. Vholes,” said Mr. Kenge.
Again Mr. Vholes said, “Very much so.”
“And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next term,
this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in it,” said
Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.
Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep
respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an
authority.
“And when,” asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which
Mr. Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his
pimples, “when is next term?”
“Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month,” said Mr. Kenge.
“Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this

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 Dickens

document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of

course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in
the paper.”
“To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention.”
“Still bent, my dear sir,” said Mr. Kenge, showing us through the
outer office to the door, “still bent, even with your enlarged mind,
on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community,
Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country,
Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr.
Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system?
Now, really, really!”
He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it
were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on
the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages.

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CHAPTER LXIII

Steel and Iron

GEORGE’S SHOOTING GALLERY is to let, and the stock is sold off, and
George himself is at Chesney Wold attending on Sir Leicester in his
rides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertain
hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is George so
occupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country farther north
to look about him.
As he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh green
woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coal pits and
ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorching fires,
and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become the features of
the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper, looking about
him and always looking for something he has come to find.
At last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang of
iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, the
trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse and
asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell thereabouts.
“Why, master,” quoth the workman, “do I know my own name?”
“’Tis so well known here, is it, comrade?” asks the trooper.
“Rouncewell’s? Ah! You’re right.”
“And where might it be now?” asks the trooper with a glance be-
fore him.
“The bank, the factory, or the house?” the workman wants to know.
“Hum! Rouncewell’s is so great apparently,” mutters the trooper,
stroking his chin, “that I have as good as half a mind to go back
again. Why, I don’t know which I want. Should I find Mr. Rouncewell

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at the factory, do you think?”

“Tain’t easy to say where you’d find him—at this time of the day
you might find either him or his son there, if he’s in town; but his
contracts take him away.”
And which is the factory? Why, he sees those chimneys—the tall-
est ones! Yes, he sees them. Well! Let him keep his eye on those
chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he’ll see
‘em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wall which
forms one side of the street. That’s Rouncewell’s.
The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking
about him. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is
much disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of
Rouncewell’s hands are dining, as the ostler tells him. Some of
Rouncewell’s hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem
to be invading the whole town. They are very sinewy and strong, are
Rouncewell’s hands—a little sooty too.
He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great
perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety of
shapes—in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in axles, in
wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted and wrenched into eccen-
tric and perverse forms as separate parts of machinery; mountains of
it broken up, and rusty in its age; distant furnaces of it glowing and
bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks of it showering about under
the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot iron, white-hot iron, cold-
black iron; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a Babel of iron sounds.
“This is a place to make a man’s head ache too!” says the trooper,
looking about him for a counting-house. “Who comes here? This is
very like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephew, if
likenesses run in families. Your servant, sir.”
“Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?”
“Excuse me. Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“I was looking for your father, sir. I wish to have a word with
him.”
The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time,
for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to be
found. “Very like me before I was set up—devilish like me!” thinks

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the trooper as he follows. They come to a building in the yard with

an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentleman in the office,
Mr. George turns very red.
“What name shall I say to my father?” asks the young man.
George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers “Steel,”
and is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the office,
who sits at a table with account-books before him and some sheets
of paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cunning shapes.
It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view be-
low. Tumbled together on the table are some pieces of iron, pur-
posely broken to be tested at various periods of their service, in vari-
ous capacities. There is iron-dust on everything; and the smoke is
seen through the windows rolling heavily out of the tall chimneys to
mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon
of other chimneys.
“I am at your service, Mr. Steel,” says the gentleman when his
visitor has taken a rusty chair.
“Well, Mr. Rouncewell,” George replies, leaning forward with his
left arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary of meet-
ing his brother’s eye, “I am not without my expectations that in the
present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. I have served
as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that I was once rather
partial to was, if I don’t deceive myself, a brother of yours. I believe
you had a brother who gave his family some trouble, and ran away,
and never did any good but in keeping away?”
“Are you quite sure,” returns the ironmaster in an altered voice,
“that your name is Steel?”
The trooper falters and looks at him. His brother starts up, calls
him by his name, and grasps him by both hands.
“You are too quick for me!” cries the trooper with the tears spring-
ing out of his eyes. “How do you do, my dear old fellow? I never
could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me as all
this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do!”
They shake hands and embrace each other over and over again, the
trooper still coupling his “How do you do, my dear old fellow!”
with his protestation that he never thought his brother would have
been half so glad to see him as all this!

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“So far from it,” he declares at the end of a full account of what
has preceded his arrival there, “I had very little idea of making myself
known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my name
I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a letter. But I
should not have been surprised, brother, if you had considered it
anything but welcome news to hear of me.”
“We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, George,”
returns his brother. “This is a great day at home, and you could not
have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I make an agree-
ment with my son Watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth he
shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all your
travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of your nieces for
a little polishing up in her education. We make a feast of the event,
and you will be made the hero of it.”
Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that he
resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being overborne,
however, by his brother and his nephew—concerning whom he re-
news his protestations that he never could have thought they would
have been half so glad to see him—he is taken home to an elegant
house in all the arrangements of which there is to be observed a pleas-
ant mixture of the originally simple habits of the father and mother
with such as are suited to their altered station and the higher fortunes
of their children. Here Mr. George is much dismayed by the graces
and accomplishments of his nieces that are and by the beauty of
Rosa, his niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of
these young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream. He is sorely
taken aback, too, by the dutiful behaviour of his nephew and has a
woeful consciousness upon him of being a scapegrace. However, there
is great rejoicing and a very hearty company and infinite enjoyment,
and Mr. George comes bluff and martial through it all, and his pledge
to be present at the marriage and give away the bride is received with
universal favour. A whirling head has Mr. George that night when he
lies down in the state-bed of his brother’s house to think of all these
things and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in
their floating muslins) waltzing, after the German manner, over his
counterpane.
The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster’s room,

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where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to show how
he thinks he may best dispose of George in his business, when George
squeezes his hand and stops him.
“Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than broth-
erly welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than
brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a word as
to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How,” says
the trooper, folding his arms and looking with indomitable firmness
at his brother, “how is my mother to be got to scratch me?”
“I am not sure that I understand you, George,” replies the
ironmaster.
“I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? She
must be got to do it somehow.”
“Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?”
“Of course I do. In short,” says the trooper, folding his arms more
resolutely yet, “I mean—TO—scratch me!”
“My dear George,” returns his brother, “is it so indispensable that
you should undergo that process?”
“Quite! Absolutely! I couldn’t be guilty of the meanness of
coming back without it. I should never be safe not to be off
again. I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not
yourself, brother, of your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago! If I
am to remain and hold up my head, I must be scratched. Come. You
are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell
me how it’s to be brought about.”
“I can tell you, George,” replies the ironmaster deliberately, “how
it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purpose
as well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when
she recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in the
world that would induce her to take such a step against her favourite
son? Do you believe there is any chance of her consent, to balance
against the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old lady!) to pro-
pose it? If you do, you are wrong. No, George! You must make up
your mind to remain UNscratched, I think.” There is an amused
smile on the ironmaster’s face as he watches his brother, who is pon-
dering, deeply disappointed. “I think you may manage almost as
well as if the thing were done, though.”

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“How, brother?”
“Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have
the misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know.”
“That’s true!” says the trooper, pondering again. Then he
wistfully asks, with his hand on his brother’s, “Would you mind
mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you. You wouldn’t object to say, perhaps, that although
an undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum or-
der, and not of the mean sort?”
The ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents.
“Thank you. Thank you. It’s a weight off my mind,” says the
trooper with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts a
hand on each leg, “though I had set my heart on being scratched,
too!”
The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but a
certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of the
world is all on the trooper’s side.
“Well,” he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, “next
and last, those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to
propose to me to fall in here and take my place among the prod-
ucts of your perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It’s more
than brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it,”
shaking him a long time by the hand. “But the truth is, brother, I
am a—I am a kind of a weed, and it’s too late to plant me in a
regular garden.”
“My dear George,” returns the elder, concentrating his strong steady
brow upon him and smiling confidently, “leave that to me, and let
me try.”
George shakes his head. “You could do it, I have not a doubt, if
anybody could; but it’s not to be done. Not to be done, sir! Whereas
it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be of some trifle
of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness—brought on by fam-
ily sorrows—and that he would rather have that help from our
mother’s son than from anybody else.”
“Well, my dear George,” returns the other with a very slight shade
upon his open face, “if you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester Dedlock’s

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household brigade—”
“There it is, brother,” cries the trooper, checking him, with his
hand upon his knee again; “there it is! You don’t take kindly to that
idea; I don’t mind it. You are not used to being officered; I am. Ev-
erything about you is in perfect order and discipline; everything about
me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomed to carry things
with the same hand or to look at ‘em from the same point. I don’t
say much about my garrison manners because I found myself pretty
well at my ease last night, and they wouldn’t be noticed here, I dare
say, once and away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold, where
there’s more room for a weed than there is here; and the dear old lady
will be made happy besides. Therefore I accept of Sir Leicester
Dedlock’s proposals. When I come over next year to give away the
bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep the house-
hold brigade in ambuscade and not to manoeuvre it on your ground.
I thank you heartily again and am proud to think of the Rouncewells
as they’ll be founded by you.”
“You know yourself, George,” says the elder brother, returning the
grip of his hand, “and perhaps you know me better than I know
myself. Take your way. So that we don’t quite lose one another again,
take your way.”
“No fear of that!” returns the trooper. “Now, before I turn my
horse’s head homewards, brother, I will ask you—if you’ll be so
good—to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to send
from these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name just now
to the person it’s written to. I am not much accustomed to corre-
spondence myself, and I am particular respecting this present letter
because I want it to be both straightforward and delicate.”
Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale ink
but in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as follows:

Miss Esther Summerson,

A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket of a

letter to myself being found among the papers of a certain person, I
take the liberty to make known to you that it was but a few lines of
instruction from abroad, when, where, and how to deliver an en-

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closed letter to a young and beautiful lady, then unmarried, in En-

gland. I duly observed the same.
I further take the liberty to make known to you that it was got
from me as a proof of handwriting only and that otherwise I would
not have given it up, as appearing to be the most harmless in my
possession, without being previously shot through the heart.
I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have supposed
a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existence, I never
could and never would have rested until I had discovered his retreat
and shared my last farthing with him, as my duty and my inclination
would have equally been. But he was (officially) reported drowned,
and assuredly went over the side of a transport-ship at night in an
Irish harbour within a few hours of her arrival from the West Indies,
as I have myself heard both from officers and men on board, and
know to have been (officially) confirmed.
I further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality as one of
the rank and file, I am, and shall ever continue to be, your thoroughly
devoted and admiring servant and that I esteem the qualities you pos-
sess above all others far beyond the limits of the present dispatch.

I have the honour to be,

GEORGE
“A little formal,” observes the elder brother, refolding it with a
puzzled face.
“But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?” asks
the younger.
“Nothing at all.”
Therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the iron cor-
respondence of the day. This done, Mr. George takes a hearty farewell
of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. His brother,
however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes to ride with
him in a light open carriage to the place where he will bait for the
night, and there remain with him until morning, a servant riding for
so much of the journey on the thoroughbred old grey from Chesney
Wold. The offer, being gladly accepted, is followed by a pleasant ride,
a pleasant dinner, and a pleasant breakfast, all in brotherly commun-

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ion. Then they once more shake hands long and heartily and part, the
ironmaster turning his face to the smoke and fires, and the trooper to
the green country. Early in the afternoon the subdued sound of his
heavy military trot is heard on the turf in the avenue as he rides on with
imaginary clank and jingle of accoutrements under the old elm-trees.

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CHAPTER LXIV

Esther’s Narrative
SOON AFTER I HAD THAT CONVERTION with my guardian, he put a
sealed paper in my hand one morning and said, “This is for next
month, my dear.” I found in it two hundred pounds.
I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought
were necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian’s taste, which
I knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to please him
and hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all so quietly because
I was not quite free from my old apprehension that Ada would be
rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet . I had no doubt
that under all the circumstances we should be married in the most
private and simple manner. Perhaps I should only have to say to Ada,
“Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?”
Perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as her own, and
I might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was
over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would like this best.
The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that I
was going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged
some time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me
and was remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had
been when we first knew her. There was no trouble she would not have
taken to have been of use to me, but I need hardly say that I only
allowed her to take as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it.
Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of course
it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty of occu-
pation, which I was glad of; and as to Charley, she was absolutely not

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to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with great heaps of

it—baskets full and tables full—and do a little, and spend a great
deal of time in staring with her round eyes at what there was to do,
and persuade herself that she was going to do it, were Charley’s great
dignities and delights.
Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my guardian on the
subject of the will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did
encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery gave occasion for a
burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up for a little time,
but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now and seemed to me to
retain only its feverish anxieties. From something my guardian said
one day when we were talking about this, I understood that my mar-
riage would not take place until after the term-time we had been told
to look forward to; and I thought the more, for that, how rejoiced I
should be if I could be married when Richard and Ada were a little
more prosperous.
The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of
town and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt’s business. He
had told me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. I had
just come in one night from my dear girl’s and was sitting in the midst of
all my new clothes, looking at them all around me and thinking, when
a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him in
the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken and
at what time in the morning I should have to leave town. It added in a
postscript that I would not be many hours from Ada.
I expected few things less than a journey at that tinae, but I was
ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next morn-
ing. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could be wanted
for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for this purpose,
and now I thought it might be for that purpose, but I was never,
never, never near the truth.
It was night when I came to my journey’s end and found my guard-
ian waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I had
begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that he
might be ill. However, there he was, as well as it was possible to be;
and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest and best, I said to

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myself, he has been doing some other great kindness. Not that it
required much penetration to say that, because I knew that his being
there at all was an act of kindness.
Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table he
said, “Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have
brought you here?”
“Well, guardian,” said I, “without thinking myself a Fatima or you
a Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it.”
“Then to ensure your night’s rest, my love,” he returned gaily, “I
won’t wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished to
express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor
unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and his
value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle here, it
came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some unpre-
tending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. I therefore
caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place was found
on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for him and mak-
ing it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day before yes-
terday and it was reported ready, I found that I was not housekeeper
enough to know whether things were all as they ought to be. So I
sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly be got to
come and give me her advice and opinion. And here she is,” said my
guardian, “laughing and crying both together!”
Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell him
what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.
“Tut, tut!” said my guardian. “You make too much of it, little woman.
Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!”
“It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian—with a heart full of thanks.”
“Well, well,” said he. “I am delighted that you approve. I thought
you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of
Bleak House.”
I kissed him and dried my eyes. “I know now!” said I. “I have seen
this in your face a long while.”
“No; have you really, my dear?” said he. “What a Dame Durden it
is to read a face!”
He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and
was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went to

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bed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was with
pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure. I repeated every
word of the letter twice over.
A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast
we went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my
mighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate
in a side wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I saw was
that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner
of my beds and flowers at home.
“You see, my dear,” observed my guardian, standing still with a
delighted face to watch my looks, “knowing there could be no better
plan, I borrowed yours.”
We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were nest-
ling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees were
sporting on the grass, to the house itself—a cottage, quite a rustic cot-
tage of doll’s rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil and so beauti-
ful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around it; with water
sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung with summer-growth,
there turning a humming mill; at its nearest point glancing through a
meadow by the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling
in bright groups and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in
the sweet west wind. And still, as we went through the pretty rooms,
out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden
colonnades garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I
saw in the papering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the
arrangement of all the pretty objects, my little tastes and fancies, my
little methods and inventions which they used to laugh at while they
praised them, my odd ways everywhere.
I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful,
but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw this, I thought,
oh, would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better for
his peace that I should not have been so brought before him? Because
although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly,
and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had
lost. I did not wish him to forget me—perhaps he might not
have done so, without these aids to his memory—but my way was
easier than his, and I could have reconciled myself even to that so

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that he had been the happier for it.

“And now, little woman,” said my guardian, whom I had never
seen so proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching
my appreciation of them, “now, last of all, for the name of this house.”
“What is it called, dear guardian?”
“My child,” said he, “come and see,”
He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and
said, pausing before we went out, “My dear child, don’t you guess
the name?”
“No!” said I.
We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it,
Bleak House.
He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down
beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, “My darling
girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really
solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which
you brought the answer,” smiling as he referred to it, “I had my own
too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different
circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes
dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one
day, I need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and
you brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child?”
I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was
lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun’s rays descended,
softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if the
brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.
“Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now.
When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would
really make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I
soon had no doubt at all.”
I clasped him round the neck and hung my bead upon his breast
and wept. “Lie lightly, confidently here, my child,” said he, pressing
me gently to him. “I am your guardian and your father now. Rest
confidently here.”
Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially, like
the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the sun-
shine, he went on.

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“Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being con-

tented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw
with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when
Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that
could never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been
in Allan Woodcourt’s confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, a
few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not have my
Esther’s bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my dear girl’s
virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her admitted on
sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in
gold of all the mountains in Wales!”
He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept
afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.
“Hush, little woman! Don’t cry; this is to be a day of joy. I
have looked forward to it,” he said exultingly, “for months on
months! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say.
Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther’s worth, I
took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. ‘Now, madam,’
said I, ‘I clearly perceive—and indeed I know, to boot—that your
son loves my ward. I am further very sure that my ward loves your
son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty and affection, and
will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, that you
should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.’ Then
I told her all our story—ours—yours and mine. ‘Now, madam,’ said
I, ‘come you, knowing this, and live with us. Come you, and see my
child from hour to hour; set what you see against her pedigree, which
is this, and this’—for I scorned to mince it—’and tell me what is the
true legitimacy when you shall have quite made up your mind on
that subject.’ Why, honour to her old Welsh blood, my dear,” cried
my guardian with enthusiasm, “I believe the heart it animates beats
no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame
Durden than my own!”
He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his
old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on the protect-
ing manner I had thought about!
“One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my
dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent—but I gave him no

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encouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I

was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me
all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan
Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead—stood beside
your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its little
mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my life!”
He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My
husband—I have called him by that name full seven happy years
now—stood at my side.
“Allan,” said my guardian, “take from me a willing gift, the best
wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I
know you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you.
You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has
made its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do
I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing.”
He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he
said more softly, “Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a
kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you
some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old
place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take
my dear.”
He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping
in the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, “I
shall be found about here somewhere. It’s a west wind, little woman,
due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to
my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I’ll run
away and never come back!”
What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope,
what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month
was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own
house was to depend on Richard and Ada.
We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in
town, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful news
to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few
minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home with my guard-
ian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his
side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.

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When we came home we found that a young man had called three
times in the course of that one day to see me and that having been
told on the occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return
before ten o’clock at night, he had left word that he would call about
then. He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.
As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as I
always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out
that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his old
proposal and his subsequent retraction. “After that,” said my guard-
ian, “we will certainly receive this hero.” So instructions were given
that Mr. Guppy should be shown in when he came again, and they
were scarcely given when he did come again.
He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but
recovered himself and said, “How de do, sir?”
“How do you do, sir?” returned my guardian.
“Thank you, sir, I am tolerable,” returned Mr. Guppy. “Will you
allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street
Road, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend
has gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly
Jobling.”
My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.
“Tony,” said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence.
“Will you open the case?”
“Do it yourself,” returned the friend rather tartly.
“Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir,” Mr. Guppy, after a moment’s consider-
ation, began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she dis-
played by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at me in
a most remarkable manner, “I had an idea that I should see Miss
Summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed
presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that
something has passed between us on former occasions?”
“Miss Summerson,” returned my guardian, smiling, “has made a
communication to that effect to me.”
“That,” said Mr. Guppy, “makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out
of my articles at Kenge and Carboy’s, and I believe with satisfaction to
all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination that’s
enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that he

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don’t want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my
certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guppy,” returned my guardian. “I am quite will-
ing—I believe I use a legal phrase—to admit the certificate.”
Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his
pocket and proceeded without it.
I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which
takes the form of an annuity”—here Mr. Guppy’s mother rolled her
head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and put
her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me—”and a few
pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never
be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know,” said
Mr. Guppy feelingly.
“Certainly an advantage,” returned my guardian.
“I have some connexion,” pursued Mr. Guppy, “and it lays in the
direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a ‘ouse
in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow
bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent),
and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith.”
Here Mr. Guppy’s mother fell into an extraordinary passion of
rolling her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look
at her.
“It’s a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens,” said Mr. Guppy, “and in
the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I men-
tion my friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I be-
lieve has known me,” Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental
air, “from boyhood’s hour.”
Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.
“My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity
of clerk and will live in the ‘ouse,” said Mr. Guppy. “My mother
will likewise live in the ‘ouse when her present quarter in the Old
Street Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there
will be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristo-
cratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements
of the upper circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now
developing.”
Mr. Jobling said “Certainly” and withdrew a little from the elbow

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of Mr Guppy’s mother.
“Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the
confidence of Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Guppy, “(mother, I wish
you’d be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson’s image was
formerly imprinted on my ‘eart and that I made her a proposal of
marriage.”
“That I have heard,” returned my guardian.
“Circumstances,” pursued Mr. Guppy, “over which I had no con-
trol, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image
for a time. At which time Miss Summerson’s conduct was highly
genteel; I may even add, magnanimous.”
My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.
“Now, sir,” said Mr. Guppy, “I have got into that state of mind myself
that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish to prove to
Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of which perhaps she hardly
thought me capable. I find that the image which I did suppose had been
eradicated from my ‘eart is not eradicated. Its influence over me is still
tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances
over which none of us have had any control and to renew those proposals
to Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at a former period.
I beg to lay the ‘ouse in Walcot Square, the business, and myself before
Miss Summerson for her acceptance.”
“Very magnanimous indeed, sir,” observed my guardian.
“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Guppy with candour, “my wish is to be
magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss
Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is
that the opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I
submit may be taken into account as a set off against any little draw-
backs of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.”
“I take upon myself, sir,” said my guardian, laughing as he rang the
bell, “to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She
is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good
evening, and wishes you well.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. “Is that tantamount, sir,
to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?”
“To decided rejection, if you please,” returned my guardian.
Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother,

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who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling.
“Indeed?” said he. “Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you repre-
sent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of the
gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain’t wanted.”
But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. She
wouldn’t hear of it. “Why, get along with you,” said she to my guardian,
“what do you mean? Ain’t my son good enough for you? You ought to be
ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!”
“My good lady,” returned my guardian, “it is hardly reasonable to
ask me to get out of my own room.”
“I don’t care for that,” said Mrs. Guppy. “Get out with you. If we
ain’t good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good
enough. Go along and find ‘em.”
I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy’s
power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest
offence.
“Go along and find somebody that’s good enough for you,” re-
peated Mrs. Guppy. “Get out!” Nothing seemed to astonish Mr.
Guppy’s mother so much and to make her so very indignant as our
not getting out. “Why don’t you get out?” said Mrs. Guppy. “What
are you stopping here for?”
“Mother,” interposed her son, always getting before her and push-
ing her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, “will
you hold your tongue?”
“No, William,” she returned, “I won’t! Not unless he gets out, I
won’t!”
However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr.
Guppy’s mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very
much against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every
time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should imme-
diately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and
above all things that we should get out.

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CHAPTER LXV

Beginning the World

THE TERM HAD COMMENCED, and my guardian found an intimation
from Mr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I had
sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I
agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely
agitated and was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the
mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported.
But she looked forward—a very little way now—to the help that
was to come to her, and never drooped.
It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come
on there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest
myself of an idea that it might lead to some result now. We left home
directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and
walked down there through the lively streets—so happily and
strangely it seemed!—together.
As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard
and Ada, I heard somebody calling “Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!”
And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of a
little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she
had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards’
distance. I had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian
had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her. Of course we
turned back, and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and
was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the
flowers, and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all)
between her hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling

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me all kinds of precious names, and telling Allan I had done I don’t
know what for her, that I was just obliged to get into the little car-
riage and caln her down by letting her say and do exactly what she
liked. Allan, standing at the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I
was as pleased as either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I
did, rather than that I came off laughing, and red, and anything but
tidy, and looking after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-
window as long as she could see us.
This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to
Westminster Hall we found that the day’s business was begun. Worse
than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chan-
cery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear
what was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for occa-
sionally there was a laugh and a cry of “Silence!” It appeared to be
something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to get
nearer. It appeared to be something that made the professional gentle-
men very merry, for there were several young counsellors in wigs and
whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them told
the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and quite
doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about the
pavement of the Hall.
We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told
us Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doing in
it. He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he
could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he
said, over for good.
Over for good!
When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one an-
other quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had
set things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to be
rich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!
Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the
crowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot
and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all
exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a
farce or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watch-
ing for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of

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paper began to be carried out—bundles in bags, bundles too large to

be got into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no
shapes, which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the
time being, anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to
bring out more. Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the
papers, and seeing Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere, asked an offi-
cial-looking person who was standing in the midst of them whether
the cause was over. Yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst
out laughing too.
At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with
an affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who was defer-
ential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to see us.
“Here is Miss Summerson, sir,” he said. “And Mr. Woodcourt.”
“Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!” said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to me
with polished politeness. “How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr.
Jarndyce is not here?”
No. He never came there, I reminded him.
“Really,” returned Mr. Kenge, “it is as well that he is NOT here
to-day, for his—shall I say, in my good friend’s absence, his indomi-
table singularity of opinion?—might have been strengthened, per-
haps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened.”
“Pray what has been done to-day?” asked Allan.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Kenge with excessive urbanity.
“What has been done to-day?”
“What has been done,” repeated Mr. Kenge. “Quite so. Yes. Why,
not much has been done; not much. We have been checked—brought
up suddenly, I would say—upon the—shall I term it threshold?”
“Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?” said Allan. “Will
you tell us that?”
“Most certainly, if I could,” said Mr. Kenge; “but we have not
gone into that, we have not gone into that.”
“We have not gone into that,” repeated Mr. Vholes as if his low
inward voice were an echo.
“You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt,” observed Mr. Kenge, using
his silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, “that this has been a
great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has been a
complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, not inaptly,

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a monument of Chancery practice.”

“And patience has sat upon it a long time,” said Allan.
“Very well indeed, sir,” returned Mr. Kenge with a certain
condeseending laugh he had. “Very well! You are further to reflect,
Mr. Woodcourt,” becoming dignified almost to severity, “that on
the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms
of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study, abil-
ity, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Woodcourt, high intellect.
For many years, the—a—I would say the flower of the bar, and the—
a—I would presume to add, the matured autumnal fruits of the
woolsack—have been lavished upon Jarndyce and Jarndyce. If the
public have the benefit, and if the country have the adornment, of
this great grasp, it must be paid for in money or money’s worth, sir.”
“Mr. Kenge,” said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment.
“Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole estate
is found to have been absorbed in costs?”
“Hem! I believe so,” returned Mr. Kenge. “Mr. Vholes, what do
you say?”
“I believe so,” said Mr. Vholes.
“And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?”
“Probably,” returned Mr. Kenge. “Mr. Vholes?”
“Probably,” said Mr. Vholes.
“My dearest life,” whispered Allan, “this will break Richard’s heart!”
There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knew
Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his gradual decay,
that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her forebod-
ing love sounded like a knell in my ears.
“In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir,” said Mr. Vholes, coming
after us, “you’ll find him in court. I left him there resting himself a
little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss
Summerson.” As he gave me that slowly devouring look of his, while
twisting up the strings of his bag before he hastened with it after Mr.
Kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he
seemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the
last morsel of his client, and his black buttoned-up unwholesome
figure glided away to the low door at the end of the Hall.
“My dear love,” said Allan, “leave to me, for a little while, the

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charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come to
Ada’s by and by!”
I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go to
Richard without a moment’s delay and leave me to do as he wished.
Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him gradually with
what news I had returned. “Little woman,” said he, quite unmoved
for himself, “to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater
blessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!”
We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was
possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to
Symond’s Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When my
darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage and
threw her arms round my neck, but she composed herself direcfly
and said that Richard had asked for me several times. Allan had found
him sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure.
On being roused, he had broken away and made as if he would have
spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth
being full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.
He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. There
were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as possible,
and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allan stood be-
hind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me to be quite
destitute of colour, and now that I saw him without his seeing me, I
fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he looked
handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.
I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by and by, he
said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, “Dame Durden, kiss me,
my dear!”
It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low
state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our
intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. My husband
had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed us both
and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost felt as if my
own heart would have broken when I saw him take my husband’s
hand and hold it to his breast.
We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several
times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon

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his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. “Yes,
surely, dearest Richard!” But as my darling answered him thus hope-
fully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was to come to her
so near—I knew—I knew!
It was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent,
we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of working
for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my being busy.
Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. He
dozed often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said first
of all, “Where is Woodcourt?”
Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guard-
ian standing in the little hall. “Who is that, Dame Durden?” Richard
asked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed in my face
that some one was there.
I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded “Yes,” bent over
Richard and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly by
me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard’s. “Oh, sir,” said
Richard, “you are a good man, you are a good man!” and burst into
tears for the first time.
My guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place,
keeping his hand on Richard’s.
“My dear Rick,” said he, “the clouds have cleared away, and it is
bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more or
less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?”
“I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to begin
the world.”
“Aye, truly; well said!” cried my guardian.
“I will not begin it in the old way now,” said Richard with a sad
smile. “I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, but you
shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it.”
“Well, well,” said my guardian, comforting him; “well, well, well,
dear boy!”
“I was thinking, sir,” resumed Richard, “that there is nothing on earth
I should so much like to see as their house—Dame Durden’s and
Woodcourt’s house. If I could be removed there when I begin to recover
my strength, I feel as if I should get well there sooner than anywhere.”
“Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick,” said my guardian, “and

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our little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it this very
day. I dare say her husband won’t object. What do you think?”
Richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood
behind the head of the couch.
“I say nothing of Ada,” said Richard, “but I think of her, and have
thought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bending
over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself,
my dear love, my poor girl!”
He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually
released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, and
moved her lips.
“When I get down to Bleak House,” said Richard, “I shall have
much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will
go, won’t you?”
“Undoubtedly, dear Rick.”
“Thank you; like you, like you,” said Richard. “But it’s all like
you. They have been telling me how you planned it and how you
remembered all Esther’s familiar tastes and ways. It will be like
coming to the old Bleak House again.”
“And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man
now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity to
come to me, my love!” he repeated to Ada as he gently passed his
hand over her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (I think he
vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.)
“It was a troubled dream?” said Richard, clasping both my
guardian’s hands eagerly.
“Nothing more, Rick; nothing more.”
“And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and
pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?”
“Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?”
“I will begin the world!” said Richard with a light in his eyes.
My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him sol-
emnly lift up his hand to warn my guardian.
“When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where
the old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has
been to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and
blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn

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child?” said Richard. “When shall I go?”

“Dear Rick, when you are strong enough,” returned my guardian.
“Ada, my darling!”
He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she
could hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted.
“I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poor
stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and trouble,
I have scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive me all this,
my Ada, before I begin the world?”
A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid
his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck,
and with one parting sob began the world. Not this world, oh, not
this! The world that sets this right.
When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came
weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty.

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CHAPTER LXVI

Down in Lincolnshire
THERE IS A HUSH upon Chesney Wold in these altered days, as there is
upon a portion of the family history. The story goes that Sir Leices-
ter paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace; but it
is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, and any brighter
spark of life it shows soon dies away. It is known for certain that the
handsome Lady Dedlock lies in the mausoleum in the park, where
the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl is heard at night making
the woods ring; but whence she was brought home to be laid among
the echoes of that solitary place, or how she
died, is all mystery. Some of her old friends, principally to be found
among the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats, did
once occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner with large
fans—like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death, after losing
all their other beaux—did once occasionally say, when the world
assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of the Dedlocks,
entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against the profanation of
her company. But the dead-and-gone Dedlocks take it very calmly
and have never been known to object.
Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the bridle-
road among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot the sound
of horses’ hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicester—invalided, bent,
and almost blind, but of worthy presence yet—riding with a stalwart
man beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. When they come to a
certain spot before the mausoleum-door, Sir Leicester’s accustomed
horse stops of his own accord, and Sir Leicester, pulling off his hat, is

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still for a few moments before they ride away.

War rages yet with the audacious Boythorn, though at uncertain
intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly, flickering like an unsteady
fire. The truth is said to be that when Sir Leicester came down to
Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Boythorn showed a manifest desire to aban-
don his right of way and do whatever Sir Leicester would, which Sir
Leicester, conceiving to be a condescension to his illness or misfortune,
took in such high dudgeon, and was so magnificently aggrieved by,
that Mr. Boythorn found himself under the necessity of committing a
flagrant trespass to restore his neighbour to himself. Similarly, Mr.
Boythorn continues to post tremendous placards on the disputed thor-
oughfare and (with his bird upon his head) to hold forth vehemently
against Sir Leicester in the sanctuary of his own home; similarly, also,
he defies him as of old in the little church by testifying a bland uncon-
sciousness of his existence. But it is whispered that when he is most
ferocious towards his old foe, he is really most considerate, and that Sir
Leicester, in the dignity of being implacable, little supposes how much
he is humoured. As little does he think how near together he and his
antagonist have suffered in the fortunes of two sisters, and his antago-
nist, who knows it now, is not the man to tell him. So the quarrel goes
on to the satisfaction of both.
In one of the lodges of the park—that lodge within sight of the
house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down in
Lincolnshire, my Lady used to see the keeper’s child—the stalwart
man, the trooper formerly, is housed. Some relics of his old calling
hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a little
lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright. A busy
little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-house doors, of
stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness bosses, anything in the way
of a stable-yard that will take a polish, leading a life of friction. A
shaggy little damaged man, withal, not unlike an old dog of some
mongrel breed, who has been considerably knocked about. He an-
swers to the name of Phil.
A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder of
hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to ob-
serve—which few do, for the house is scant of company in these
times—the relations of both towards Sir Leicester, and his towards

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them. They have visitors in the high summer weather, when a grey
cloak and umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at other periods, are
seen among the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally found
gambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; and
when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant evening
air from the trooper’s door. Then is a fife heard trolling within the
lodge on the inspiring topic of the “British Grenadiers”; and as the
evening closes in, a gruff inflexible voice is heard to say, while two
men pace together up and down, “But I never own to it before the
old girl. Discipline must be maintained.”
The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house no
longer; yet Sir Leicester holds his shrunken state in the long drawing-
room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my Lady’s pic-
ture. Closed in by night with broad screens, and illumined only in
that part, the light of the drawing-room seems gradually contracting
and dwindling until it shall be no more. A little more, in truth, and
it will be all extinguished for Sir Leicester; and the damp door in the
mausoleum which shuts so tight, and looks so obdurate, will have
opened and received him.
Volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red in
her face, and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Leicester in the
long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal her yawns,
of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of the pearl
necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises on the Buffy
and Boodle question, showing how Buffy is immaculate and Boodle
villainous, and how the country is lost by being all Boodle and no
Buffy, or saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle (it must be one of
the two, and cannot be anything else), are the staple of her reading.
Sir Leicester is not particular what it is and does not appear to follow
it very closely, further than that he always comes broad awake the
moment Volumnia ventures to leave off, and sonorously repeating
her last words, begs with some displeasure to know if she finds her-
self fatigued. However, Volumnia, in the course of her bird-like hop-
ping about and pecking at papers, has alighted on a memorandum
concerning herself in the event of “anything happening” to her kins-
man, which is handsome compensation for an extensive course of
reading and holds even the dragon Boredom at bay.

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The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in its dull-
ness, but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns are
heard in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and keepers wait
at the old places of appointment for low-spirited twos and threes of
cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debilitated by the dreariness of
the place, gets into a fearful state of depression, groaning under peni-
tential sofa-pillows in his gunless hours and protesting that such fernal
old jail’s—nough t’sew fler up—frever.
The only great occasions for Volumnia in this changed aspect of
the place in Lincolnshire are those occasions, rare and widely sepa-
rated, when something is to be done for the county or the country in
the way of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, does the tuckered
sylph come out in fairy form and proceed with joy under cousinly
escort to the exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen heavy miles
off, which, during three hundred and sixty-four days and nights of
every ordinary year, is a kind of antipodean lumber-room full of old
chairs and tables upside down. Then, indeed, does she captivate all
hearts by her condescension, by her girlish vivacity, and by her skip-
ping about as in the days when the hideous old general with the
mouth too full of teeth had not cut one of them at two guineas each.
Then does she twirl and twine, a pastoral nymph of good family,
through the mazes of the dance. Then do the swains appear with tea,
with lemonade, with sandwiches, with homage. Then is she kind
and cruel, stately and unassuming, various, beautifully wilful. Then
is there a singular kind of parallel between her and the little glass
chandeliers of another age embellishing that assembly-room, which,
with their meagre stems, their spare little drops, their disappointing
knobs where no drops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs
and drops have both departed, and their little feeble prismatic twin-
kling, all seem Volumnias.
For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of over-
grown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing their hands,
bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the window-panes
in monotonous depressions. A labyrinth of grandeur, less the prop-
erty of an old family of human beings and their ghostly likenesses
than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which start out of
their hundred graves at every sound and go resounding through the

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building. A waste of unused passages and staircases in which to drop

a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send a stealthy footfall
on an errand through the house. A place where few people care to go
about alone, where a maid screams if an ash drops from the fire,
takes to crying at all times and seasons, becomes the victim of a low
disorder of the spirits, and gives warning and departs.
Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to dark-
ness and vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or
the wintry lowering; so sombre and motionless always—no flag fly-
ing now by day, no rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family
to come and go, no visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes of
rooms, no stir of life about it—passion and pride, even to the stranger’s
eye, have died away from the place in Lincolnshire and yielded it to
dull repose.

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CHAPTER LXVII

The Close of Esther’s Narrative

FULL SEVEN HAPPY YEARS I have been the mistress of Bleak House. The
few words that I have to add to what I have written are soon penned;
then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for ever.
Not without much dear remembrance on my side. Not without
some, I hope, on his or hers.
They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I
never left her. The little child who was to have done so much was
born before the turf was planted on its father’s grave. It was a boy;
and I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father’s name.
The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it
came, in the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bless
and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its
power was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weak
little hand and how its touch could heal my darling’s heart and raised
hope within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness
of God.
They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my coun-
try garden and walk there with her infant in her arms. I was married
then. I was the happiest of the happy.
It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada when
she would come home.
“Both houses are your home, my dear,” said he, “but the older
Bleak House claims priority. When you and my boy are strong enough
to do it, come and take possession of your home.”
Ada called him “her dearest cousin, John.” But he said, no, it must

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be guardian now. He was her guardian henceforth, and the boy’s; and
he had an old association with the name. So she called him guardian,
and has called him guardian ever since. The children know him by
no other name. I say the children; I have two little daughters.
It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed still, and not at
all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so
it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write early in the
morning at my summer window, I see the very mill beginning to go
round. I hope the miller will not spoil Charley; but he is very fond of
her, and Charley is rather vain of such a match, for he is well to do
and was in great request. So far as my small maid is concerned, I
might suppose time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill
did half an hour ago, since little Emma, Charley’s sister, is exactly
what Charley used to be. As to Tom, Charley’s brother, I am really
afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but I think it was
decimals. He is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a
good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being
ashamed of it.
Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer
creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with
the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life. Caddy
keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and lives full
two miles further westward than Newman Street. She works very hard,
her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do very little.
Still, she is more than contented and does all she has to do with all her
heart. Mr. Jellyby spends his evenings at her new house with his head
against the wall as he used to do in her old one. I have heard that Mrs.
Jellyby was understood to suffer great mortification from her daughter’s
ignoble marriage and pursuits, but I hope she got over it in time. She
has been disappointed in Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out a failure
in consequence of the king of Boorioboola wanting to sell everybody—
who survived the climate—for rum, but she has taken up with the
rights of women to sit in Parliament, and Caddy tells me it is a mission
involving more correspondence than the old one. I had almost forgot-
ten Caddy’s poor little girl. She is not such a mite now, but she is deaf
and dumb. I believe there never was a better mother than Caddy, who
learns, in her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb

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arts to soften the affliction of her child.

As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded here of
Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Custom House, and
doing extremely well. Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still ex-
hibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old
manner, is still believed in in the old way. He is constant in his pa-
tronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite
French clock in his dressing-room—which is not his property.
With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty
house by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian,
which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came
down to see us. I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full
in drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have
their way.
I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a
good man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me
he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that? He is
my husband’s best and dearest friend, he is our children’s darling, he
is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yet while I feel to-
wards him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him
and so easy with him that I almost wonder at myself. I have never
lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do I ever, when he is with
us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side, Dame Trot,
Dame Durden, Little Woman—all just the same as ever; and I an-
swer, “Yes, dear guardian!” just the same.
I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment
since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. I
remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now,
and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on
that very day.
I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow
that has been in her face—for it is not there now—seems to have
purified even its innocent expression and to have given it a diviner
quality. Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the black
dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel—it is difficult
to express—as if it were so good to know that she remembers her
dear Esther in her prayers.

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I call him my Richard! But he says that he has two mamas, and I
am one.
We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we
have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear the
people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hear his
praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down at night but I
know that in the course of that day he has alleviated pain and soothed
some fellow-creature in the time of need. I know that from the beds
of those who were past recovery, thanks have often, often gone up,
in the last hour, for his patient ministration. Is not this to be rich?
The people even praise me as the doctor’s wife. The people even
like me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quite
abashed. I owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They like me for his
sake, as I do everything I do in life for his sake.
A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling
and my guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, I
was sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable
porch, when Allan came home. So he said, “My precious little woman,
what are you doing here?” And I said, “The moon is shining so
brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have been sitting
here thinking.”
“What have you been thinking about, my dear?” said Allan then.
“How curious you are!” said I. “I am almost ashamed to tell you,
but I will. I have been thinking about my old looks—such as they
were.”
“And what have you been thinking about them, my busy bee?”
said Allan.
“I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you
could have loved me any better, even if I had retained them.”
“‘Such as they were’?” said Allan, laughing.
“Such as they were, of course.”
“My dear Dame Durden,” said Allan, drawing my arm through
his, “do you ever look in the glass?”
“You know I do; you see me do it.”
“And don’t you know that you are prettier than you ever were?”
“I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now. But I
know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling

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is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that

my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was
seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me—
even supposing—.

FINIS

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